


Rise of the Nazbukhrin

by Jon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bearded Dwarf Women, Character(s) of Color, Disabled Character of Color, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarf Women, Dwarf/Human Relationship(s), Dwarven Politics, Erebor, Khuzdul, LGBTQ Character of Color, Lesbian Character of Color, Middle Earth, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, POV Character of Color, PoC, Pre-Hobbit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jon/pseuds/Jon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty years after several great Corsair fleets were decimated at the hands of the Gondorians, Umbar is beset with waves of refugees fleeing the Southern lands of Harad. Gondor is attacking again: burning ports, looting towns, and spreading fear. Rumours are starting abroad and in the City that not only do they have their eye on the coastlands once more, but on new territory to the East: the mountains of the Orocarni, a rich, thriving trade hub and the home of the greatest of the dwarves, the Four Dwarven Clans - the Ironfists, Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, and Stonefoots. </p><p>Now with the rise of Sauron starting up again, a group of dwarf-led resistance fighters have to struggle against the imperialism from the West and the darkness seeping into their homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mardruak Fallen

                                                                                  

_Dusk, Umbar City_

 

The lone dwarf weaved her way through the tented stalls and noise, the crush of bodies against the dusty walls of Umbar, and down to the city gate that led to the docks. Despite Umbar being the sea haven of the Corsairs, the main harbour was situated on a steep slope away from the city gates, and the wide, winding road that led down past the outskirts of the walls was now slick with mud from the summer storm that had whipped across the bay only an hour ago.

The scent of the rain on the dry earth almost drowned the aroma rising from the food _zek_ , now crammed with people clamouring for the last of the vendors' produce for the evening – meats, sauces, rices and baskets of seafood carted up fresh from the shore – but already there were stall holders packing up shop to dismayed shouts.

Lumkha's lips tightened as she fought her way against the legs of the crowd. With her tersely muttered apologies giving way to shoving and elbowing upwards, she let out a sigh of relief as she burst free from the main gate like a cork out of a bottle, casting a glance over her shoulder in amazement.

Despite the night settling in slowly, with purple and orange deepening to an indigo on the horizon, more and more caravans were arriving from the Coast Path. They were laden with goods, people, whole houses and families and clans backed up as far as she should see. Several city guards ran past her, their sweat drenched faces visible by the glare of torch brackets high on the outer towers and the glittering lamps that lit up the windows to the citadel far above her.

A scuffle had broken out between two wagons, and the Ironfist had half a mind to go and sort it out herself; her blood was up and she thought quietly that laying a blow to the thick skull of a Man would make her night immeasurably better. She gingerly felt where she'd been pushed aside by some faceless person in her escape from the crush at the gate, and groaned as she traced a gaping tear in the fabric hanging from her shoulder.

“Perfect,” Lumkha hissed, glaring at the offending patch of bare skin as she rooted in her leather pack for some pins. Almost as soon as she'd had that idea, she threw her bag over her shoulder again and twisted on her heel, willing herself not to fall onto the matted grass as the made her way down to the harbour.

Passing the queue into the gates, her eyes couldn't help registering the places the caravans were from: the nightly lines of people vying to enter the gates had been her source of news without directly asking anyone, though on the coast of Umbar she got information quickly enough from the Corsairs that she considered her allies.

It seemed Gondor was picking up the pace in their southern raids.

Lumkha remembered the first of it, the slow beginning when news was just seeping north – it had only been Felaya then, and she had desperately hoped it was a one-off attack of hatred or retaliation. She remembered holding her friend in the middle of a hot afternoon one month ago, an Umbari dye seller with a father from the Felayan province, as she had broken down in tears: Gondorian naval ships had come without warning, looting the land and sacking homes and businesses alike.

In disbelief, the dwarf had listened that night in her local haunt on the dock as the Corsair captains spoke of the destruction caused, with others stocking up through the night as they turned their ships for home in panic. That was when the first refugees started to make their way to Umbar. It hadn't stopped.

Though Lumkha hailed from the Orocarni herself – her hometown in _Guthelabbad_ seemed both too far and uncomfortably present with the upsurge in dwarven mariners in Umbar these days – a rage even fiercer than the throb of venom she usually bore for Gondorian men rose in her as she saw the lines of people waiting, possessions clutched tight in their hands. In Urfanmi's tears, she heard the ghost of the destruction the Númenóreans had brought on Umbar ages past, still remembered now amongst its citizens who had lived through the newest burning of Umbari ships forty years previous. But she forgot how fast the years hastened by for her, and how slowly it passed for Men. Despite that, the past month had been the slowest she had ever encountered, as she both searched near obsessively for news of more raids and at the same time willed that there was nothing to tell but the comings and goings of pirates and traders and Corsairs, the hub of Umbar rebuilding itself again.

More and more families, more and more of the Men she knew sitting in stunned silence with her, their faces vacant as they made space in their cramped rooms for extended families and friends fleeing northwards. Children and mothers without fathers or husbands wandering on the streets and sitting under the covers of canopies hastily erected outside the city walls. 

_Who was it now?_

The dwarf ran a hand through her beard and tugged it absent-mindedly; she had been scolded by Varhi the other day for nearly ripping out a chunk of it. Her stomach flipped as she realised some of the people were from Mardruak, a short journey down the coast from Umbar itself. _Less than a few hours away_.

Pirates were always useful sources of information; if you were in deep enough, you were guaranteed reliable news often as you liked it, but she hadn't even bothered to ask the intricacies of what was going on. She overheard enough talk, anyway. When she could bear it no longer, Lumkha turned away from the caravan train, taking the larger path where it split from the road that linked all coastal states in Harad together to the main wagon-way to Umbar. The cold wind made her light hood useless, and she grabbed her cloak to her face, walking faster and eyeing the building she was heading towards: a thoroughly disgusting hole on the Umbar's harbourside behind the storehouses and shops, hidden between the tight walls of an alleyway. Abandoned some time ago by the previous owners and carefully avoided by the City guards (who took a blind eye to most things the Corsairs and their allies did) The Red Cap was almost entirely run and staffed by seafarers from Harad to Khand, and even those traders from the Sea of Rhûn. The rum was black market, and the food was plentiful and cheap if you didn't come too late in the evening.

She nodded to some of those she recognised as she strode across the docks, passing from sparse countryside to paved stone and crumbling monuments far out in the water. Every so often, she heard a friendly word called by a captain or crew-member from this ship or that, and the people that had thinned out on the path now swelled again as ships jostled for space and traders unloaded for the evening. The tight knot of panic that had bubbled in her chest inside Umbar's city walls now began to subside as she walked in familiar territory; she'd never been a fan of the City itself, but being close to the sea was where she truly felt comfortable. As a young girl, Lumkha had grown up in the area of trade in the Orocarni, with the Eastern Sea flowing underground into a port twice the size of this one; much like Port Nazbukhrin, Umbar came with its familiar sights and smells, which had drawn her close all those years ago.

Over the past month, there had been more boats drifting into Umbar. Not traders or Haradi greatships, but small, battered fishing boats, guided to settle uneasily in the bay by wizened captains who Lumkha thought looked more at home in the field than the open sea. 

Slipping in through the door of The Red Cap, the dwarf breathed in as she smelled something cooking – something meaty and much needed, along with the headiness of good, strong ale.

“Lums! Here!”

She peered over a few heads and shoulders to a corner of the bar, and made out the wild, curled mane that she knew could only belong to one person. She grinned, barely hearing him at first over the chatter.

 _Getting a drink!_ She mouthed back at the dwarf, who sat with his large forearms propped up on the table, a collection of mugs surrounding him _._ Optimism blossomed inside her at a sudden thought, and then, with a quick look to the bar to make sure she had been seen, she mouthed again – _The Nazbukhrin_? 

The Blacklock dwarf shook his head, flicking it backwards and indicating that his own ship was back somewhere else; Lumkha suspected the Sea of Rhûn or the city of Dale. Her eyes fell a little and she heaved herself up at the bar to order her drink and a side of stew. It would have been good to have a catch up with the captain about the recent events. While Lumkha was often left frustrated and unfulfilled with the politics of the world of Men, Captain Hafar Jazrul dealt with anything as he always did – with an envied patience, far surpassing the tolerance that Lumkha often fronted. His first mate, on the other hand, had seated himself far out of the way of anybody, at a deserted table half in shadow.

With a glass nestled precariously in the crook of her arm and a steaming bowl cradled in both her hands, she dodged the sailors streaming in, the crush in the bar mirroring the city above it as the harbour neared peak time. Varhi budged up on the bench, pulling the glasses to one side and sinking back with his pipe gripped between his teeth. The other dwarf tutted as she caught a whiff of the smoke around him; it was the strange Rhûni fare that Varhi always stocked up on when he was in Oszrahank – she was sure Hafar had gotten him hooked on it.

“How's things?” he drawled, his breath speaking of an ale too many. Lumkha spooned a healthy amount of broth into her mouth, breathing out deeply as she felt her muscles relax finally. Walking through the city for the best part of the last four hours had her back knotted, and she stretched backwards, leaning partially on her friend.

“Mardruak-”

“I know.”

Lumkha stared into her bowl, tumbling the meat and vegetables slowly with her spoon, at a loss of what to say. She turned to Varhi sadly, but he was relighting his pipe with a frown of concentration.

“The raids aren't going to stop. They're getting closer,” she said.

They all knew it. Every single person inside of the bar knew it, and she didn't want to open her ears to the conversations buzzing around their heads.

Varhi grunted, taking a deep drag and offering it to Lumkha out of habit.

“The Zindurlai crew turned back South today,” he mentioned. “You just missed them.”

A muscle tightened in Lumkha's jaw, but she took a swig of her ale and said nothing. _The Zindurlai_ , while not affiliated with Umbar as a Corsair party, was the ship that had first taken her on, a scared young dwarrowdam pirate looking to make a name for herself when she had met them in her home at Port Nazbukhrin. She steadied her breathing for a moment, relishing the bitterness of the strange beer she only drank when it was shipped in from outside.

“What?” she snapped, as she saw Varhi eyeing her mug with an insufferable drunk smirk.

“With a slice of orange? Really?” the dwarf said, grinning at her and picking up what seemed to be his fifth or sixth glass. Lumkha rolled her eyes, twisting a wayward strand of coarse black hair from her face behind her ear, and noticed that she'd lost her hair clasp somewhere.

“It tastes better with the orange. Plus,” she added, giving it a little squeeze and throwing it precisely into the larger dwarf's mug with a foamy splash, “you need some fruit once in a while!”

The sight of Varhi wiping froth from his thick beard was worth the punch in the arm she got, and a smile broke out on her face for the first time that day.

“How was the city?” Varhi asked seriously, absent-mindedly taking one of Lumkha's braids into his fingers and frowning at the untidiness of it. She batted his hand away and threw her hood up once more.

“From the state of you...” he continued, taking in the ruffled clothes and missing hairpieces, “quite a crowd?”

Draining the other quart of her beer, Lumkha nodded. She didn't need to tell Varhi that there was hardly any breathing room in the food market, that there were women and children on the streets, that there were unmarked gangs standing inside darkened and unguarded alleyways looking for easy prey.

“All of Umbar is fucked,” the Blacklock spat, before fishing the orange slice from his drink with a finger and pushing it into his mouth. Lumkha smiled, leaning back against Varhi's leg which he'd propped up in front of him, and he laid a strong arm over her shoulder. She linked their fingers, tracing the cut of the new rings Varhi had bought for himself with hers, deep brown on gold, whilst she admired the jade and turquoise against the tan of his skin. It reminded her of the markets back at home, where the women had huge pale blue ear plugs carved with faces, animals, and the angular inlay of jewelled shapes.

“Oh-” Varhi began, halting for a moment to puff out a plume of acrid smoke into the air. Lumkha shot the dwarf an upwards glare, but only really caught sight of his nostrils and the thick ring pierced through the middle.

“Captain Ulbar sends his regards to you,” he said, his eyes studying the ebb and flow of people outside the wide window on the other side of the room. “He wanted to see you before the ship left, but I think he got too angry with all the new boats in the harbour today – you know how he likes his peace and quiet.”

Despite kicking herself for not getting out of the city quicker, Lumkha snorted at the half-jest. Ulbar was easy to anger, often liking more a deserted stretch of water than the bustle of a pub – but he was never adverse to causing a ruckus in a small crowd. Many of the Corsairs who called Umbar their home were frustrated at the new ships taking up space as more and more towns were evacuated, but there was nothing to be done, and there was nearly a tussle every day. Harbour space was a precious commodity; the guards of the haven had taken to anchoring boats at the front of the bay, sending all refugee ships to nearby town ports. 

“May Mahal keep them safe,” Lumkha said, raising a glass to The Zindurlai and closing her eyes briefly. She felt Varhi reach for his own drink – but the stiffening of his back made her crack an eye open.

The dwarf's gaze had flickered down at her from where he'd been staring out of the window, and she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. Lumkha followed his eyeline, but couldn't see anything without her eyeglasses (conveniently back at her ship) – she could sense something though, in the way Varhi moved, in the way he seemed to be hesitant about telling her...

“As I came into port this morning... I noticed there were others amongst the crowd of... survivors.”

Lumkha stilled, swirling the last dregs of beer anxiously. 

“There are Men from the Outer States here on the docks, some of them threatening the Corsairs.”

At that moment, Lumkha wished she had the nerve to stop Varhi, to close her ears and block out what was inevitably going to come now. He took a deep breath, and the Ironfist pirate came up to meet him, offering her ear.

“They're growing in number – we all knew it was only a matter of time, but Ulbar... he was approached yesterday. I think that's why he wanted to get away – to Mardruak and then onto Nilul. They wanted the ship; they asked about prices and if he was in league with _Him_ already...”

“I thought the Zigûr's base in Rhûn had been destroyed long ago,” Lumkha breathed, lowering her voice and looking back over her shoulder and the tables. Amongst the assorted dress and mannerisms of the Men around her, there were old faces she knew, but increasingly more and more were unfamiliar – the servants of the Deceiver could be anybody.

“The States along the Canal are already sending riders to Umbar – and I have already seen more than one ship with the Eye drawn onto its hull somewhere, or hanging from a mast,” Varhi said quickly. His voice had dropped to a whisper, but Lumkha winced: the Eye hadn't been seen for an Age – it was an old symbol of Sauron's overwhelming power, and to have it drawn onto a ship was troubling. She went to take another mouthful of stew which had lain neglected, swallowing the cold, spicy broth that burned at the back of her throat.

“They're going to take advantage of the City,” she said, after allowing her mouth to cool for a few seconds.

“There is still time,” Varhi replied in earnest. With every passing second, the dwarves' voices hushed lower, until they were almost bent double at their corner with the overhead torch casting their forms into shadow.

“Time enough for _what_ , Varhi? For the citizens of Umbar to put their trust in a stronger power? For Gondor to retaliate against anything the Zigûr creates if His followers influence so much as a _few_ Corsair captains?” The words tumbled from Lumkha's lips, all of the fears she had bottle up inside of her now being released like poison. For a moment, Varhi was silent beside her and his only movement was to take another drink as the door of The Red Cap banged open and closed. For a moment, Lumkha thought him offended. 

“I'm going to get a rum,” he said darkly. Without a word, he stood, stretched, and Lumkha folded herself into the warm space he'd left, with enough of a mind to catch his arm and request one for herself.

It was going to be a night of thinking.

* * *

 

Outside The Red Cap, dusk had passed into night, and the torches and lamps were now lit in full, illuminating the pathway. The sails of many ships, Khandisgi, dwarven, and Haradi, fluttered in the wind. Another storm was on the way, far out to sea.

 


	2. A New Shadow

                                                                              

Forty years ago, the largest host of Corsair ships sailed out of Umbar in more than a thousand years, bound for Gondor. They never returned.

Life inside the bright city walls halted once more. A few of the battered ships limped back to the haven, but in the years that followed the harbour lacked the proud standards of the Corsairs and the security that the free-roaming crews provided to trader vessels; fishing boats started to moor in the spaces once reserved for great captains, who now slept under a strange shore.

Rebuilding was slow, but constant. A slow drag upwards. Umbar was not a target for Gondor's eyes, who turned every so often to their old seat of power, but a port of trade and commerce for Khand and Northern Harad. The cities nearby sprawled into the desert and lined the great man-made Azuladun Canal; beyond the mountains to the north that stretched up to Hildórien lay the forgotten pastures of ancient peoples, and then northwards still was the great wonder of the East: the red mountain range of Guthelabbad, the Orocarni, and the home to the greatest of the dwarves in Eastern legend. Like veins in the beating heart of Middle-Earth, all of these kingdoms connected by water and camel, by boat, foot and wagon. And so had they done for centuries.

Gondor settled back to survey the damage as Wainriders' drowned bodies flushed into the sea or sunk to the bottom of the lakes. To the East, once again the plains Clans clashed and merged to absorb the damage of so many brothers and sisters' deaths, and powers rose and fell unbeknownst to their enemies in Rohan. On the borders of the Orocarni in the vast riverside cities, the Easterling captains met to divide land once again, paying weregild to their lost soldiers and wagon-riders where it was due, and life continued – those that camped and hunted in the cold wastes in the north still migrated down into the middle of the pastures as the ground thawed, and thousands of crow-miles away on the shores of the mighty Sea of Rhûn, the Banyuk Clan held their seat of governance over the capital of Dorwinion.

The last of the seats of Black Númenórean rule, Bellakar's capital city of Nilul, maintained power in the South of the land, inland where the rivers turned the desert green. Boats laden with wood were sent to rebuild the Corsair ships, along with hundreds of wagonfuls of rice up the Coast Path. With a citadel twice as high as Umbar City itself, the gleaming sandstone of Nilul's walls held temples and seats of learning, wide halls where the scholars of the land drew up the laws of the nearby kingdoms according to old tradition, changed little since the last of the Númenórean bloodline had faded. In those times, the rum trade from nearby Tarkesh blossomed, the Umbar mariners' gold going to soften the blow of dead fellows; in Bozisha, the port town of the southern coast, the fruit harvests of mangoes and dates came and went as they always had done, and the surrounding grasslands continued to nourish the roving cattle: cows, horses, and some wilder kine unseen in other parts of the South. From the vast tent encampment nestled in the valley of Zimrenzil, to the gem-mines of the Haskani tribe in the Mardruak mountains, the inner workings of Harad continued, and Umbar staggered upwards, pulled together by the grief and pride of its citizens.

 

* * *

 

_Midday, Umbar City_

Some said Minas Tirith was based on Umbar City. Its curves rising up in a fortress of silver-grey stone, its network of streets arched and dark, and the huge courtyards of fountains bordered with shops built upon one another. The rounded and intricate Númenórean design in the oldest parts below on the shoreline mixed gradually with a fresher, angular Haradi style above; both designs complemented and mocked each other, remnants of the past and the struggling present, often covered by bright drying fabrics, stocked silverware outside smithies and the throng of people passing through each of the City's numerous _zeken_. These markets spilled out, merging sometimes at all levels down to the sea, and the great labyrinths of commotion, colours and smells mingled into one hypnotic and overpowering haze, especially in the dusk and late afternoon where the sun was at her most tolerable and the streets had been newly swept, stalls laid afresh.

But at noon in the summer, with the heat warping the distant dark smudge of An Karagmir on the eastern horizon, it was quiet; men sat in the shade underneath low canopies, raising glasses of cold mint tea to sweating faces in an effort to cool off, some playing dice games, some making conversation with the trickle of shoppers ambling by.

If you walked for an hour up to the high levels (close to the wall; the wagon drivers were notorious), the street became one road as it lead up the centre of the Old City, ascending to the bulbous domed tower of the Ivory Hall that glistened brass and gold in the high sun. _'The High Buildings'_ they were called by the locals, for in this district they rose in great formations one behind the other, and all in a complex series of narrow alleyways and walkways in the shape of the crescent moon: the Hall and seat of the Queen's power, the Temple (that burned now monthly instead of thrice daily), and the Library.

The Library was one of Umbar's prides, saved from destruction multiple times throughout the Ages by the temple guard and a secretive stronghold that lay deep within the palace itself. If you got past the guards or earned the favour of one of the scholars, the great iron doors would give way to towering stone spirals of manuscripts from the Orocarni dwarves to Anballukhorian tablets, Agoni Clan maps charting the laws of the ancient land before Númenórean rule, Har Shulam tapestries hanging in shaded corners, and the quiet alcoves high in the roofs dedicated to transcribing and translation. Though Umbar had been burned and ransacked over the years, the Library was a haven of peace.

 

* * *

 

The midday bell rang for council throughout the Hall, and one by one, the councilors of Umbar made their way to their seats. Queen Althidi sat in an onyx chair; aside from the Library, the seat of Kings (or Queens) was a remnant from an earlier time, and had seen both politician, tribal lord and Corsair Admiral take to it to govern the City. An Admiral Captain of the Corsair still had not been appointed, the elder Corsair taken to the bottom of the northern waters with his greatship before the Queen's birth. Since then, the Corsairs had resumed a form of self-government, rising ships taking precedence in the waters, but somehow with very little dissent amongst the newer vessels. The space reserved for him at the grand council table, however, still remained vacant in a sign of proprietary.

Althidi waited for the bustle to subside, leaning back and watching the dust spin up in the small patch of light that fell across the documents in her lap. Far away from the streets below, she could almost pretend a national crisis wasn't happening. More than once this past month she'd had the urge to barricade herself inside the cool walls of the Ivory Hall, away from the tents in the streets and the endless lines of people – more came every day. Now, after the fall last night of Mardruak to Gondorian ships, it was impossible to push out of mind for much longer.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the council chamber, and every expectant face turned towards her. With one glance at Chancellor Haidi to her left, Althidi rose, taking in a deep breath of crisp air and the official's strong perfume oil.

“Welcome, Council, and well met,” she began, a twisted metal glass flute in between her fingers. The others followed suit, a few of the elders standing out of old habit.

“May the rule of Umbar be strong.”

Althidi tipped the stringent liquid down her throat, the fire coursing into her stomach and making her eyes water. She set the glass down quickly; many others had only taken a sip of the customary drink after muttering the reply, but some, like her, had needed the kick.

Lowering herself down again, the Queen spread the papers in front of her. Maps, reports, city numbers that had been collected and grown, reports from the food traders. _Where to begin?_ She thought dismally, her eyes tracing over pleas and the increasingly frantic tones of the head of the City's watch.

“More come every day, my Lady Althidi.”

The Queen's eyes raised to the Captain of the Watch, who now pushed another paper towards her across the table. He was tired, as were they all, but him moreso. His tightly curled hair had more grey in it since they last met, and his face was sagging and creased, his dark eyes speaking of not enough sleep and far too much stress.

“Last night there were people coming in until day broke. Gondorian ships left the coastline around the same time, and we have heard about no sightings since,” he finished, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. He looked to his right at the Coastal Captain, whose head jerked in a nod.

“Bozisha are still sending supplies for repairs northwards, but...” The captain trailed off, staring at the map that was spread wide on the table. Althidi leaned forwards, glancing at the red wax marking the points that had been hit. One main province was left clear, but circled in a wide, black line.

“You think Bozisha will be next?” she asked, drawing her hand up to her hair and threading her fingers in the mussed braids. There was no shock to her captain's statement; moreover, it was a miracle that the rich province, which had one of the best coastline defences, had not been the first to go.

“We can't pretend it won't happen,” the captain offered. Around the table, there was a noise of accord – more like a collective groan. The Moksahb slumped his head in his hands to her right, his moan stifled by his palms.

“We can't keep feeding half of Harad!”

His domain was the markets of Umbar, which now, he had reported for the past few weeks, were at a state of emergency.

“The fishermen are too scared to venture out into open water, and the Corsairs are returning South, or not at all. No word has come out of Felaya since it fell four weeks ago, and if Bozisha goes-”

“Hush-” Chancellor Haidi hissed to the Queen's left, reaching behind her to place a stilling had on his arm. The man quietened, but his imploring look to Althidi was unmissable as he distractedly took a sip of his drink. Several around the table shifted in their seats, raising their eyes to the painted ceiling or around at the carven statues, each one depicting a lawmaster or ruler of Umbar since the Second Age – the eldest, a faded carving of pioneering scholar Mizokh, who founded the Library and the first scholar to collect historical manuscripts; the most recent of Nazmir, the late Corsair captain and Admiral of Umbar.

“Haidi, you said you have news from the Outer States?” The Queen asked, raising an eyebrow at her Chancellor. The woman looked at her sadly, then to the Coastal Captain. Both seemed to struggle to get words out, and it was Haidi who spoke first, in a measured tone that bore the hallmarks of being pondered over far too much.

“I have been meeting with the captain frequently since the raids started,” she began softly, avoiding the Queen's gaze somewhat and twisting the heavy black ring of office on her finger, “and it has come to light that there has been an increased disturbance in the cities along the Canal, most specifically Korondaj.” Haidi looked up to the captain, who had sunk back in his chair.

“We have seen ships bearing the symbol of the Eye again in the harbours, making trouble with the Corsair captains - or at least trying to,” he added with a dry laugh.

The Moksahb sat up straight again, his indigo cloth veil rippling as he settled himself forwards.

“And in the City as well,” he added, pushing his headcoverings back a little to dab the sweat on his brow. “Our reports say that new groups of the Zigûr's followers are unifying themselves with some of the unmarked gangs we have been having trouble with. From what I've heard, they think the rule in Umbar is too soft for their liking, that the people want to strike out-”

“But since then, nothing has come from Korondaj. We've sent riders there and they have not returned,” Haidi interjected. Her fists clenched hard on the table so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and her sharp eyes bored into the Queen's from beneath her own loose hood. “All the cities under the control of the Zigûr priesthood close down to us; we know this from the past that nobody goes in or out.”

Another rumble of agreement swept the room; but this time there were more who stayed silent.

The Queen sighed, biting the inside of her cheek in nervous habit. She knew well the power the zigûren had when morale was weak and the people were frightened, when frustration at injustice was at the highest. She herself had come across the dune sea to An Karagmir in the back of a nomadic caravan, escaping an attack on her Clan in Khand many years ago. As a young woman, Althidi had started priestesshood in the Temple there, one built even greater than the temple in Umbar, and she had found solace in a network more powerful than herself. Soon, though, the City gates closed, with the only movements in or out being the faceless zigûren riders, the only ones free to pass as they pleased. 

“We must be wary if Korondaj becomes a breeding ground of those who follow the Zigûr,” said a man who had not spoken – the old Chief Lawmaster of Umbar. Also the Head Scholar at the Library, he spoke slowly and held Althidi's gaze with steady grey eyes, slapping a fly away from his beard idly. “We all know the need to do something about Gondor. How we do it is what they'll fight us over.”

When the attacks had first begun, it was unclear what Gondor had wanted. It was raids, lightning fast and destroying earth, resources, and homes alike. The news Chancellor Haidi had brought from her network of ears had spoken of cargo carried off to the north, while other reports said that Arnadil, the new Admiral of Gondor, had begun to blackmail those in power as far as Nilul, encouraging them to turn rule over to Gondorian lords.

“ _If_   Umbar is attacked,” Haidi said, standing and refilling her water glass from the central jug, “then I can assume the groups in the City with the most power will retaliate in whatever way they want to, regardless of anything we can say. Whether or not we can regulate it-” she inclined her head respectfully to the Coastal Captain, “is what troubles me.”

An unspoken thought around the table passed through the glances and silence. Black Númenórean leadership had changed throughout the Ages, and lore and rule book had been overwritten as each King had come into power. But now, there was no doubt many of Umbar's citizens preferred the promise of something better - something that perhaps only the obscure figure of the Zigûr (whether alive or dead) could give them. The thought of a strike from a god was worth more than any number of flesh and blood soldiers Umbar could muster.  _What if the zigûren were right?_   

Althidi cleared her throat, looking to Chancellor Haidi, then at the Lawmaster. The documents each had brought meant little enough, even without the dismal number of warships listed in front of her. In her mind, at least, there was only one solution now.

“A state of emergency is therefore called upon Umbar,” she said, her voice falling flat on her ears. “While we cannot spare any ships or arms now with Gondor burning our coastline, we must turn our attention to the zigûren's influence with the Corsair and within the city, not only the raids. Any force they might use behind our backs might prove fatal to the city's defenses. We cannot risk open war.”

The light shifted, illuminating new faces, lined, scared, heavy. Somewhere below, another bell sounded, signalling the mid-afternoon meal was prepared. The bustle of the kitchens drifted up from the rooms below, the heady scent of slow cooked meat wafting in through the arches in the walls. Althidi's nose twitched, and the Queen gathered her papers, making sure to catch Haidi's eye as a nod of her head indicated the meeting adjourned.

“I will call another council soon to decide a course of action,” she said over the clutter of people rising to their feet. She stood, too, gathering her dress around her against the chill breeze blustering through the room and slamming the blinds. The Moksahb had filled Althidi's cup with the toasting drink, and she stood back, raising it to eye-level.

“May Umbar endure until the ending of the World.”

“So may it be.”

* * *

 

“Althidi!”

The Queen turned to face Haidi, who was walking quickly towards her out of the Ivory Hall's throne room, clutching a meal of rice and pulled beef in sauce. Althidi's stomach complained at not having had the chance to eat yet, and she parted from the Lawmaster – who had insisted on talking to her after the meeting had finished – to face her Chancellor.

The woman smirked and pushed the bowl into Althidi's hands, walking with her back to the throne room and giving the Lawmaster a suspicious glance.

“What did that one want?” she whispered, linking her arm in the Queen's, who was balancing a roll of papers in one and the meal in the other.

“To talk to me more about the zigûren,” she said delicately, a frown creasing her brows. “He says there could be a way of reconciling with them and their leaders... I myself...”

Althidi paused to have a spoonful, before plunging it back in and hitching up her purple dress sleeves. The pair came to a stop beneath a hanging lamp outside a deserted chamber, and Haidi paused as servers and noblemen pushed by in the hall on their way out. The chatter of many voices in different tongues died away as she watched the door close on the last of their backs. Casting her heavy black hood up over her hair, Haidi met her queen's curious gaze.  

“Right now, I have some Khandisgi connections meeting with Arnadil. I should receive his location by this eve."

* * *

 

 

Night fell over Harad, and the moon rose, crescent like the complex of the High Buildings, peering over the tallest tower of the Library. Miles away from Umbar, Sango shivered, pulling his shawl closer about his skin: it was colder up here; the scent in the air was stranger than he imagined.

A week had passed since the raid on Bozisha-Dar, and he shifted uncomfortably as he felt the blood rushing back to his arse. He'd been sitting in this wagon for days, with books, gold, and gems laden about him and the others.

“ _If this gets raided,” he warned Jarmil, as he was unceremoniously pushed into the back of the overcrowded cart, “then I'm not going to be treated kindly. You know the zigûren have returned-”_

“I wonder if he's alright.”

Sango turned to the woman who had spoken, a young girl of around seventeen, with her large eyes set deep in her face. Her skin glistened with the light of the towns they passed and the moon through the trees, which were becoming more sparse the more north they went. Her own shawl was pressed around her, threads of gold running through the plum-coloured fabric.

“He's Jarmil; he'll be fine,” Sango replied defiantly, settling his head back and forcing sleep to come.

“My arse hurts.”

Sango sighed, turning over to face the girl (he'd already forgotten her name again; he'd not eaten properly in days) and drew his long legs up to his chest.

“Everyone's arse hurts-”

“M'tiba,” she said quietly.

“Everyone's arse hurts, M'tiba,” Sango said, lurching forwards as the wagon gave a harsh jolt.

M'tiba fiddled with her silver bracelet, counting the charms on it once more and fiddling with it in her hands. Out of habit, Sango's fingers found his necklace, and the sigil of Olou slipped through them.

“Should have worn Asa to drown those Gondor rats,” he said harshly, throwing down the metal onto his chest.

Minutes passed, and the cart slowed down again, the horse picking its way through a rough patch of stone.

“I'm wearing Asa, but he doesn't do anything anymore,” M'tiba said, leaning against Sango and shivering. The man creaked open an eye, reaching to cover his bald head from the cold.

“There are rumours on the shore that the Zigûr men are looking for a great sea captain to turn him into a Lord.”

Sango slumped where he sat and threw the edge of his cloak tighter around him as he hunched over, his breath rising before him like one of those Orocarni ice-dragons he'd heard about in his childhood. For a moment he thought he'd remembered a story about how the Stiffbeard dwarves still had a few chained up. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep...

“There are no great captains anymore. At least not up in Umbar,” he said, rifling through his pack to find some cured beef.

 

_There had been no warning, just the appearance of ships on the horizon, and the blast of the horn sounding from the shore. But they had all expected it: Bozisha would be the next place to fall._

_Before he realised how he'd got to the shore side, Sango was laden like a mule, with books, papers, money, food – anything Captain Jarmil could get his hands on, Sango took and threw into the back of the wagon, which was already retreating up the path. People were pushing to get onto it, and several fell back into the mud when their feet lost grip, or as they were shoved away in desperate panic._

“ _LISTEN TO ME!” Jarmil shouted, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the torched houses. Sango was hanging out now, Jarmil running behind – he wasn't getting on the wagon, he could get on the wagon-_

“ _Please, I don't want to leave you – captain-” Sango said, pulling at the man's hand, but it was no use, the cart was pulling away, people still throwing their possessions into it and climbing on top of others – women, children – to get on... Sango hadn't thought it would be like this, he thought there would be more time-_

_A letter was thrust into his hand, and as he snatched it, Jarmil pulled away, standing in the track left behind. Sango could see him draw his scimitar out, glancing behind him as the first of the raider crafts landed._

“ _OPEN THE LETTER AND READ IT!”_

 

Sango took out the meat, throwing a slab to M'tiba before unfolding the letter. Many had got off as the cart had wound itself around coastal towns, avoiding much of the path that had been destroyed. It was, as the cart driver had put it, the 'scenic' route around to Umbar City.

Now only a handful of people were left, with Sango and M'tiba at the back.

Holding it up to the light of the moon, he could just make out the hastily scrawled lettering. It wasn't a long paragraph, nor was it a will or last testament. It said simply:

 

_Balar, Red Cap._

_The Orocarni is next._

_-Tell him Jarmil sent you-_

 


	3. Into Guthelabbad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time we enter the Orocarni (or Guthelabbad); my favourite chapter so far.

Beyond the Sea of Rhûn, and beyond the vast plains that lay outside the imaginations of the men of the West, was Guthelabad. From the northern wastes where only the hardest of Clans survived to the borders of the ancient kingdom of Hildórien at the edge of Khand, the Orocarni (as it was called in elvish tongue) rose into spiralling nests of cloud that ripped at the steep mountain faces on every side. Red, immense, and as old as the Earth itself.

On each side, the kingdoms of the Easterlings thrived in the shadow of the mountain's roots. The principal settlements of the Eastern men who stayed to live off the trade coming from the mountain gradually grew through the ages, from encampments that their plains neighbours still preferred, into wooden fenced dwellings and then to vast stone cities. These straddled the many rivers springing away from Rhûn's vast inland Sea to the west, and each settlement there huddled close to the gates of a dwarven city, with some smaller towns meandering downwards as far as the mouth of the Nurad. Out in the middle of nowhere, this waterway split from its mother, the mighty Dânu, and after a few deserted miles it took a dive through a small gathering of grey hills at its foot and into the Azuladun Canal, signifying the passing from harsh rocks and scrubland into the soft sand and the way westwards to Umbari territory.

More than a hundred miles away from the Orocarni, on a river twice the size of the Anduin, sailboats and ships of all sizes fought for passage in the heaving central waterway that lead down to the Sea of Rhûn. Barges of gold, salt, fruits and steeds passed each other with a blare of horn or clatter and cries, while in the chiefest port of Oszrahank, the freezing sea wind stung and whipped at any exposed skin offered to it, bending the fields of crops stretched out on all sides. Ship after ship passed through on their way to Dale and the North, harbouring in Dorwinion before stocking up and making the long journey to the west and back again, perhaps to the Greenwood, perhaps to the Iron Hills. Winding down through the houses, lodges and shops that nestled into the alcove of the bay, Oszrahank's dirt tracked main road became paved nearer the harbour, where a bustling auction square stood in its midst, the first great goods auction that lay before reaching Dale. Despite the trade filtering through it daily, the town had never grown very much, remaining a small and close-knit community of local traders and merchants that catered to the ships passing in and out. Above the port and far up into the country, several smaller villages lay in the surrounding hills of mostly tomato farmers and wine pressers; from the highest point, on a clear day, the Orocarni could be seen, a giant red haze in the distance.

If you took a horse over the plainlands from Oszrahank, galloping as fast as the best stallion the Banyuk Clan possessed or flying straight as one of their hunting birds, it would be many days before you reached the nearest road, if you reached it at all. That might be the last you saw of the East before you were taken into the human city of Abulkhan, which lay in the crook between the gates of Nazbukhrin itself, the halls of the Ironfists, and the ancient forest of the East. The settlement, being the furthest East you got without passing over (or under) the mountain, arched its stony legs in a man-made plateau wide over the Dânu river, which began flowing from a gaping mouth in the cliff face, spray roiling up in a thunderous drone that never stopped, and churned by the incessant roll of ships out of the underground waterway of the dwarves.

Though Abulkhan's gates were heavy and thick, iron and timber reinforced, it was mainly a display of power and prosperity than any real defence. Shadowed by the mightiest of the dwarven houses and a deep river underneath, the Easterlings of Abulkhan had no real fear of attack by neighbours, and there were few orcs in this part of the world. The pirates that roamed the Eastern coast never dared to enter the mountain, and piracy for plunder was only constrained to the unfortunate cities that lay on the other side of Guthelabbad, near the shoreline and the deserted stretch of islands at the edge of the eastern world.

Joined to a wall that reached barely up to the first towering rampart of the dwarven settlement above it, the gates of Abulkhan rested open until night fell, as for the past thousands of years the city had been a thoroughfare for wood and lumber – woods of all types and carpentry of all kinds – and the animal heads that crowned the Abulkhan's gate were statements of it: one, a white cedarwood boar two men high, and the other a gigantic carven ram, looking out across the rest of Middle-Earth with stony eyes of jade and twisting horns of wood and black metal.

On a stone road above the city was one of the entrances to Guthelabbad, and to Nazbukhrin. Open to the elements, the door lay rune-edged and proud, decorated with onyx and deepset silver, with a hardwood portcullis that raised and lowered more frequently than its stone covering was opened and closed. Wagons, merchants, and caravans of all kinds entered Nazbukhrin this way by foot and cart, winding upwards and upwards precariously, following the deep troughs worn into the road with the passing of years. Like a school of salmon fighting against the current and breaking free, the busy entrance of Nazbukhrin led into a vast concourse – not dark as might be expected from less educated men about a dwarven dwelling, but bathed in natural, bright sunlight from huge windows that faced onto the rest of Rhûn, and the hundreds of gas-lamps suspended and burning ceaselessly.

The cluster of visitors and ambassadors thinned after the first checkpoint – a smaller hallway for formal greetings to the left after an intricate, pointed archway; a large guard hall to the right – and each went their way inside the mountain paths, leading their oxen on leashes with surety that spoke of doing it ever since they were young. The relationship between the dwarves of Guthelabbad and the men of the East and South was as old as their creation itself: who else taught the men their language, how to craft in stone and forge weapons of iron and steel?

The long central road branched off at intervals and weaved through the pillars, each one as thick as a mighty tree around before disappearing far above into darkness. From the terraces and roofs on each level that rose high in rings into the mountain came the sounds of industry and business; dark jade and marble arches marked the way to smithies, workshops and streets, while stone hands pointed the way into the centre of Nazbukhrin and the tradehalls.

Every so often, the path would twist downwards, and the way would be shut off by a garrison of dwarves: the deepest smithies of the Ironfists were off-limits to those without appointment (which was scarcely given out except by the leave of the Queen). It was said that these were the mithril-houses, where only the richest of jewellery and armour was created; but there were also whispers of an older metal that only the dwarves of Guthelabbad still had access to since the elder days of elven trade: _galvorn_. The number of dwarves who believed this was debatable, but when questioned, the old smiths coming out of the area would keep silent, hoods thrown over their faces and talking in _fallakhuzdul_ amongst themselves.

These workshops were guarded fiercely, and rumours of dragons and prisons chased after any who had a mind to bypass the guards and take a look, though no man ever dared. The same rules were in effect for outsiders in the residential areas, which lay criss-crossed in between workshops and gathering halls. Smaller and cosier than the cavernous streets below, these were light and airy, protected by the more jovial of wardens with pointed caps balanced on their heads, often waving down to traders and merchants who passed or who needed directions. The edges of the streets were rigged with lanterns and lamps, wire meshed and glowing in many soft colours, and each home or dwelling hall was partitioned by a set of heavy blue curtains. Personal smithies and workshops stood with only a spell or two bound inside their door frames, where Ironfist and Stonefoot blacksmiths and jewellers worked all hours of the night with windows lit and surrounded in silence.

In the centre of Nazbukhrin, as the central road became a steady flow of dwarves and carts, was the main tradehall, fronted by a metal billboard that stood towering next to the entrance. Above it was fixed the international sigil of trade in the Orocarni: a gold and deep blue hand, a coin of the realm set in the middle, with ancient greetings carved in all the tongues of Men encircling it. Here, anybody could post notices of traders in town, goods that were sought and offered, or entertainment that was going on around the city that evening; if you slipped a coin or two to some of the dwarves in charge of the hall, who were designated by their rich purple robes, a notice that was placed surreptitiously at the bottom might move a notice up a few places, with a brightly coloured peg hammered into the top of it. On the hour heralded by the great clang of a bell, a crier would exit to much fanfare and call out any notices for the swarm of people at the door, haggled throughout to read adverts that were pushed towards them before vanishing angrily back through the doors and into the throng of shops and bodies.

The main hall was for meeting and exchange; here were the bankers and scribes, who weighed gold and traded in it. This acted as the largest tradehall for the citizens of the Orocarni – dwarf -made goods for dwarven hands, with local dishes and crafts spanning the whole of the mountain. Stonefoot powder dyes that lined up piled high in brass plates stood next to a cramped wall full of Blacklock medicines and books bound in leather hides, which were kept away from outsider eyes inside a large, heavily guarded tent. More mundane wares such as pots and pans were wheeled down from the smithies above to sit alongside cases of wine and rum that were rolled out of cellars by the barrel in yak-drawn carts. Amongst them, some human tradesman walked, wares slung about their shoulders, or before them on trestle tables as they sat and bartered back and forth – it was the place for goods that didn't fit anywhere else, but also to hear gossip and tales, to share a drink with friends (and sample some of the ones from distant lands). Through the hall at intervals, rows of tents pitched up where not only sellers sat and kept shop, but also writers, astronomers, magicians and physicists conversed deeply, trading ideas over complicated stone-games, with pots of tea kept warm nearby on small fires.

There were a handful of other rooms branching off of the main hall, which dwarfed even the throne room of the Queen (which wasn't so much a throne room as a private audience chamber, settled in the highest part of the mountain's peak). The white walls of the Smith's Hall were kept immaculate, standing sharply out from the red of the floor, with trader's wagons set up aligning the pillars. Some of the dwarven smiths had set up shop inside the hall itself, basic equipment for fixing repairs, and small bellows and forges half the size of their usual counterparts were built into the sides of the room at the far ends: these permanent shops were reserved for the most established of dwarves, family companies who had traded in the Orocarni's halls since they were created. At benches and in cloth tents, Stonefoot jewellers carved in turquoise, Tiger's Eye and lapis lazuli, setting gems and adorning men and women alike in requested styles; others peered in to catch sight of what the latest fashions spreading across the Orocarni were. At the far end of the hall, across the circle of space used for auctioning and stall trade, were the set of heavily gated stairs that led down almost a mile away to the Armoury proper. Easterling, Haradi and dwarven armour and weaponry churned out constantly here, with the hydraulic steel pistons of the armoury forges operated by a diverted flow from the river and overseen by hundreds of workers at a time. Here was undoubtedly the loudest part of Naznukhrin, and the great throb of machines hammered out a pounding rhythm – the heartbeat of the mountain.

Built high over the deep rushing water below, the central road continued in its way through the city, passing by and through each tradehall and forking off like branches of a tree before coming back together again. The Food Hall held an intoxicating fug of scents and colours; hidden around a quiet corner away from the road was The Library, barricaded by a set of giant gold doors where only dwarves passed; The Treasury was the province of those who traded in raw gemstone, and cartloads arrived up from armoured ships in the port.

Below the road, barges and boats passed underneath towering arches that glistened with moss and spray, and every so often, the stone road would change to a heavy wooden drawbridge. The flow of traders and pack-animals would halt momentarily as guards cranked leavers to hoist up the road, a mighty greatship passing underneath and downwards to the port of Nazbukhrin. The further down you went, the closer to the underground river you were, and if you followed it along the banks past the dwarven shops and houses in the less wealthy (but none the less busy) parts of Nazbukhrin, you would come to the vast harbour, which was illuminated not by lamps but by the light that streamed in from the gaping exit onto the world and the river heading down to the Eastern Sea.

The river that ran through Guthelabbad was the largest underground water system in the Middle-Earth. Carved by the early dwarves before even the meeting of Men, it began from the iced peaks of the Stiffbeard fortress in Kikuama, rushing down in an endless torrent through each territory and homeland. Underneath the roads of Guthelabbad, it passed through the mountain wide enough for four ships abreast to sail and straight on until the other side. Port Nazbukhrin itself provided a more welcoming experience for sailors looking for the taste of familiar harbour life: shops and houses of brick crammed the sides of the port in a labyrinthine pattern that concentrated the rest of the dwarven populace into an area which had built up gradually over time – pushed together and overflowing with open-air blacksmithies, dens of cheap food and cheaper drink. Buildings had been almost stacked up on top of one another, some toppling, some used as scrap for other nearby complexes, and the whole township stood apart from the residential streets above, the province of those dwarves who joined Corsair ships far from home, or who operated as smugglers within their own cities. The taverns this far under the mountain held many songs and news that didn't make it to the ears of those in other parts of Nazbukhrin.

 


	4. Onto The Nazbukhrin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing (some of) my favourite characters!

It was mid-March in the Orocarni, several years before the first of the southern raids, and Umbar lay untroubled.

* * *

 

The young dwarf started as his bag ripped, vegetables tumbling down his back and leg and rolling down into the guttering of the rooftop. As he twisted on the slate ledge, he felt another crossbow dart narrowly miss him, this one sticking into a wooden rafter and signalling that perhaps climbing this high to escape the guards may not have been the cleverest idea.

Fara cursed through his teeth after slipping and nearly losing his footing for a second, but he soon recovered and swung down onto a terrace and across again to another one. Under his scarf, which was slipping down from his mouth to his neck with sweat, came a stream of Khuzdul oaths mixed in with pleas to his tired body to push on down towards Port Nazbukhrin as shouts below echoed up around him. No more arrows came his way, though, as he ducked, obscured behind chimneys and air vents, before dropping soundlessly (if a little ungracefully) onto the street.

He paused, taking another breath.

The dwarf threw his split pack away; he could perhaps steal some food on his way out of the city – there was no point trying to abide by the law any longer. Taking off again and keeping close to the walls, hoping not to run into anybody he knew (or anybody after him), Fara skirted the edges of the portside to where the boats were moored and the sailors gathered. Half-baked ideas floated around each other in his mind: maybe he could steal a ship, or maybe he could offer work just so he got out of Guthelabbad? Maybe he could promise a lifetime of service?

 _It wouldn't matter_ , a voice in his head told him harshly. _You'll just be brought back home..._

He could hear the sound of boots on the stone ground, Khuzdul cries ordering guards this way and that; like cellar rats, he could feel them move behind buildings in front of him, just out of sight, but that almost made it worse.

Fara hesitated for a moment as he slowed to a jog, ducking around the corner of a grocery shop that had a mound of ginger and coriander bunches covering half of the outside. His gloved hand went out to snatch up an apple, but a crash behind him made him jerk around, and his palm caught painfully on a nail jutting out of the wooden posts on the shop front. With only enough time to wipe the blood from his fingers on his ripped cloak, Fara took off again, slipping through the crowd of sellers and merchants on his way to a collection of high-masted ships at the water's edge.

It was nearly noon and the harbour concourse was bustling, but the dwarf's heart pounded faster as before him, pushing their way through the sea of people, were several armour-clad guards of the realm, their pins and red cloaks proclaiming their status as the palace's own infantry.

Losing hope by the second, Fara turned in the opposite direction, covering his mouth with one hand – as if that would make a difference. He blindly ran now, lungs protesting at each breath he dragged in; it seemed that he had been running for hours, from the palace prison far above, down backroads and down further still to the exit onto the Eastern Sea.

He only noticed he had knocked over the other dwarf when he looked down and saw him gathering up a fallen bag and stick; Fara hadn't felt the collision at all, but bent to heave the man up and hastily press his walking aid – a rich Mumak ivory and mahogany cane – into his hand.

“Sorry-” he began sheepishly, looking over his shoulder, before he touched his fingers to his orange hood in a sign of farewell-

“Not so fast!”

Fara winced as his wounded hand was grasped, and looking down he noticed his beige cotton shirt was not only covered in grime and grease from swinging in the roofs of Nazbukhrin's portside, but half drenched in his own blood.

He caught the other dwarf's eyes, taken aback slightly by the brilliant deep amethyst that met his enquiringly. He was older, richly dressed in luxurious quilted fabric from Harad in a myriad of colours (bordering on garish) and from the sleek tricorn atop his neatly twisted hair, Fara could tell he was undoubtedly a captain of some sort. Fara was aware acutely of his own dishevelled state, and the dwarf's eyes drifted down from his temples to his chin, where instead of customary gold or silver clasps, Fara's own locks were loose. He raised a brow.

“In some trouble, lad?” the captain said, raising himself slightly to peer over Fara's shoulder. Fara followed his gaze and winced as he saw the nearest guard deep in conversation with a fish trader in a barge close by. Turning back to the captain, he frowned slightly as he saw the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

“Are you in need of a crew-member? I'm looking for some work – today,” he offered. Fara knew he dodged the question with as much grace as a Mumak trying to tiptoe around a village, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that he was now an _exile_.

Holding his breath, the younger dwarf watched the captain regard him quite blankly for a second, pulling his yellow spotted scarf tighter around his shoulders. A shudder passed through his body, and his eyes flashed towards the port exit, which was funneling a wind strong enough to set the line of ships bobbing in front of them.

“Chilly,” he said finally. Fara was about to repeat his question, maybe ask if he had a spare room for the night on his vessel, when the older dwarf smiled and beckoned for him to follow, turning as if nothing out of the ordinary was afoot in the harbour today, and completely ignoring the commotion the guards were stirring up behind them both.

“A little, I suppose?” Fara muttered, taken a back a bit as he set off after the captain. He only stopped looking back over his shoulder every other second when a hand on his arm stayed him. The other dwarf shook his head briskly, drawing his own cape around Fara's shoulders to embrace his back.

“Don't look back, lad; it draws too much attention – here, we're at my ship.” After a short walk no more than a few metres along the edge of the port, they had come to a standstill. Fara blinked for a few seconds as he stared in confusion at the small fishing trawler that sat moored in a patch of shadow.

 _Better than nothing._ Fara made a move towards it tentatively.

“Not that one! Do I look like a fisherman?” the other dwarf said sharply, rapping his cane on the ladder of a vessel towering over the barge. He had completely looked past the ship. It had seemed too good to be true as his mind registered the silver inlay of runes painted into its side - and Fara only became more confused as he mouthed the name over and over to himself-

“But,” Fara turned back to the captain, running to chase him halfway up the ladder to the deck and clutching the rope rail as it dipped, “this is _The Nazbukhrin_!”

As Fara stumbled after him onto the deck, which stood almost as high as the storehouses adjacent to it, he gaped at the harbour below, suddenly a dizzying drop downwards. The wood around him was polished and sleek, a far cry from the crumbling and rough-hewn boats he had spent some time working with when he had a job, and the sails were fully rigged high: a red mountain with four stars crowning its peak adorning the middle. Fara stared at this for a while, before a bark snapped him back to earth.

“In!”

The captain was holding a door open for him, eyeing the portside darkly. As he neared, Fara felt the warmth wash over him from face to fingertips; the door shut behind them both, and silence enveloped them now the noise from the port was cut out.

Despite feeling a little calmer now that he was out of immediate danger of arrest, following a stranger he'd knocked flying on the harbour wasn't what Fara normally would have done. Even more ominous was the ship he was in: Fara considered himself fairly well-versed in the current affairs of the merchants coming out of Umbar even if he wasn't one himself, and The Nazbukhrin was a vastly well-connected and respected ship; no wonder the office he'd been ushered into looked like a palace to him. The soft candlelight from the lamp above glinted on a ring pierced through the captain's eyebrow as he turned to remove his hat and set it aside on the desk. For a moment, Fara tried to make out the inscriptions on some gilded ornaments that clinked together as they settled behind his ear, where they were fixed into a braid: two diamond-shaped ingots, one inscribed with the letter 'H'. To Fara's gold-trained eye, they looked pretty weighty. _And pretty expensive_.

The captain motioned to him to sit down at a wingbacked chair, and Fara did so a little stiffly. He was still clenching the cuff of his jerkin to his cut palm, and he stuffed it into his lap in embarrassment – beneath his feet was a fine rug, thick and old and vibrant in patterns and pictures, and he was aware that the blood was now dripping from his fingertips freely. The captain tutted, and without warning bent close to inspect the cut.

“Varhi will fetch some hot water for that- VARHI!”

Fara grimaced at the shout, but offered a weak smile as the captain's face settled back into a reassuringly gentle expression. He then pulled his chair closer to sit opposite Fara, hooking his cane over the arm of it.

“In the meantime, would you like some tea, ah...?”

Fara took his expectant silence as an opening to introduce himself properly, rather than a 'sorry'.

“Fara,” he said, after he paused long enough to make giving a false name obvious. “My proper name's Fara'ouz.” He took a breath in, feeling his cheeks burning. “Nobody calls me Fara'ouz,” he added.

“Captain Hafar Jazrul, at your service,” the dwarf replied, with a gracious bow of his head and a hand on his breast. His eyes gleamed brightly at him, and though he could sense no ill-will, Fara swallowed a little; he had heard the name before not only in high conversation, but also around the harbour in gossip from Umbar and Rhûn. He nodded haltingly, watching Hafar pour some tea from the small kettle that stood on a tray at the centre of the table as he hummed to himself absent-mindedly.

A soft rap at the door came just as Fara had taken a sip (scalding his tongue clumsily in the process). The captain looked up from where he had been sitting back with his eyes closed, and called for the person to enter. Fara peered round as the door opened and a huge dwarf strode in, carrying a bowl of steaming water and fresh cloths, with a small blue bottle balanced on top and bandages over his shoulder. He eyed Fara and grunted as he set the equipment down, and Fara respectfully bowed again to the Blacklock, whose curly hair fell past his shoulders.

“Varhi Iskbanal,” the dwarf said without waiting for a name. He looked from Hafar to Fara, and Fara could sense from the steely look in his eyes that there were words unsaid between them.

“Thank you, Varhi. Varhi, this is Fara,” Hafar said; the smile he'd worn since Fara had first taken a seat had never left his lips, and he gave Varhi a small wink.

“Make sure we aren't disturbed. You know?”

The Blacklock grew surlier at once, nodding and leaving without a second glance. The young dwarf looked up uncertainly, but Hafar offered no further explanation, and unravelled some of the bandages.

“Oh – no sir, I can do it myself-” he went to say, taking the bowl in his free hand and becoming even more confused at the actions of the captain, as he hardly thought it proper that a captain would fix up a dwarf he'd picked up off the harbourside, dirty and obviously sought after.

“Don't be foolish-”

“You've made a mistake bringing me here!” Fara couldn't stop himself, and pushed his chair back from the table abruptly, its legs catching on the carpet. The window behind them that looked out onto the harbour was small and nobody could see into it from the height they were at, but Fara saw, fogged and indistinct through the glass, the shapes of armed dwarves lingering and standing by.

Hafar raised a brow again at the interjection, but at once he huffed through his nose in a small laugh. He unstoppered some of the blue liquid anyway and shook it into the water, which immediately swirled a dark navy.

“I know exactly what I've done in bringing you here,” he said quietly. “I've saved you from exile and probably death, Fara'ouz.”

Fara could only sit still as his hand was carefully taken and dipped in the liquid – it was an antiseptic he recognised from some of the Blacklock medicine stalls far above them – and he groaned a little as the sting blossomed up to his elbow, leaving him a little breathless.

“You're probably wondering why,” Hafar offered, as he smoothed a little ointment over the cut. Fara deeply inhaled its clean scent and nodded silently. He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, but though he promised himself he would do whatever it took to get away from the mountain, he wondered what the captain of the famous Nazbukhrin would ask in payment. Slavery? He would almost be willing...

Captain Hafar sat back after bandaging his hand tightly, and above him through the dizziness brought on by the throb in his hand, Fara saw numerous maps and charts, odd little navigational instruments and models of the stars in brass and silver. The walls were covered so no hint of wood was left, and he could see the outlines of places on faded paper, names written in languages he hadn't heard before. Books, parchment piled high, and candles of many hues and shapes (along with an impressive array of scarves) took their places on shelves, which were gold bracketed across the walls. Hafar followed his gaze in curiosity, and grinned back at him.

“I'm not the most tidy of people. I like to collect things...” he fingered the dotted scarf at his neck and looked down fondly, “curiosities most of all.”

Fara looked at him with the first genuine smile of the night – that was something they both shared, at least. For the past few years, curiosities and things of value that were hard to find or sought after had been his business, bringing in some small gold now and then, some form of adventure between manual labour that was now becoming ever more difficult to find on the docks.

Hafar drew himself up in his seat and stretched, his back cracking.

“I've been from here to Anballukhor, around through the Azuladun to Umbar, then around the most southern peninsula and up the Eastern Strait, back out to Dale and the Iron Hills,” the captain said. He got up, and Fara immediately went after him, grabbing his cane and holding it out – Hafar waved it away and leant back on the desk as he stood flipping idly through a large, flat book of maps.

“Do you like to read, Fara?” he said, peering up at the younger dwarf at his shoulder. Fara stood silently for a few seconds, looking at the patterns and shapes that were inked in blue onto the paper.

“I've never had the chance to read,” he admitted faintly.

Hafar's eyes were serious for a moment, the bright blue now the colour of the deep sea in concentration. He sighed deeply, staring down his nose and fishing a pair of steel spectacles from his breast pocket.

“Neither did I, until somebody gave me the chance to join their ship as a young dwarf. And so I sailed to Umbar.” An amber ring on Hafar's finger caught the light and Fara noticed he wore a necklace of amber, too, which had the shapes of animals carved into it – in his mind it seemed to crackle with an odd presence, and Fara glanced back up into Hafar's face quickly.

“I managed to break into the library,” Hafar said with a smile, moving away from the other dwarf and reaching for another leather tome, opening it at a page. On it, Fara saw elaborate drawings of kings, not Gondorian kings, but kings with dark black skin like Hafar's, proud, with robes flowing and faces angular.

“I learned from a scholar from Nilul – these are the ancestors of those from Nilul – how to read. I stayed in the library until some guard questioned why I was there, and even then, they gave me several books to take. I learned to read in a few months.”

Hafar snapped it shut, looking back up to Fara's face. He was still lost in thought, and for a moment, shame. Fara had seen the Blacklock book market, and dwarves and Men bidding on gilded books containing, Fara knew, thousands of pages of knowledge. Though he could read some simple words on flyers at the boards outside the tradehalls, he could never bring himself to buy something and try to decipher the sentences.

“I would go to the Library of Umbar if I wasn't an exile,” he said tersely, clenching his fist so that the physical pain drowned out thoughts that he had quietened for a few minutes. Even if Hafar was offering him any sort of service, he would be caught, and The Nazbukhrin would be captured and towed back in humiliation.

“You're not an exile if I inform the Queen you're now working for me,” Hafar said lightly, as conversationally as he had pointed out the weather down on the harbourside.

Fara, not for the first time since their meeting, wondered if Hafar was joking. He smiled and stared blankly, waiting for the truthful answer this time.

The captain placed a hand on Fara's shoulder again, eyeing the tattered cloak and squeezing lightly.

“When did you last eat something hot?”

Fara shook his head; for the past few days he had ignored the pains in his gut.

“Even if you don't think I'm serious about your freedom, I can at least give you a meal and a better cloak – how about that?” 

* * *

 

It was night-time before Varhi finally went out to the harbourside. Stalking up to the Captain of the Guard, who had been keeping an eye on The Nazbukhrin (but too scared to directly challenge the ship for hiding a fugitive), Varhi shoved a note into his hand.

“Captain Jazrul requests you stop watching the ship, 'lest you catch a chill,” he said with a sneer. The guard rolled his eyes and read the note briefly himself.

“I can't believe this, he thinks he can do what he wants-” he grumbled, a thunderous scowl on his face. The dwarf spluttered for a second, tugging at his beard as he read the note over.

“Perks of being the Queen's brother-in-arms, I suppose,” Varhi called over his shoulder.

* * *

 

“More bread?”

Fara moaned slightly and shook his head; Hafar had been plying him with seconds and thirds of dinner after Fara had told him he hadn't eaten for three days properly, and they were having a light drink after their meal. The lights had been turned low, the room now seeming smaller now that the curtains had been drawn, and the sounds of night-time at the dock, of unloading and merriment from the taverns outside, were muffled.

Hafar mopped up the last of his stew with some flatbread, watching Fara as he contentedly sipped at his wine.

“You know your way around the streets - I saw you up there on the rooftops. Like a cat!” Hafar said, recounting not for the first time how impressed he'd been at seeing Fara jump from shop to shop across Nazbukhrin. Fara was silent as he accepted the compliment, nodding again.

“You can run quicker than any dwarf on this ship. Mahal knows we've needed new blood for a while... and somehow, you escaped from a dwarven prison...” Hafar peered up from a map smoothed out to one side of the table.

Fara couldn't disagree about that. He had hinted that breaking and entering (or exiting) was what he was somewhat good at. When asked what he'd done for a living and how he'd run foul of the law, he had been pressed to give Hafar the truth, persuaded by something in the captain's voice that reassured him that he wouldn't be judged this time. His crime had been a mistake which he'd paid dearly for, but it was a mistake nonetheless (something, of course, the guards who had holed him into the darkest, deepest cell hadn't believed for a second).

“Let's just say that I _know_ when people are telling the truth.” Hafar said to him, fiddling with one of the pendants at his neck. It was clear that the conversation had ended there, and Fara didn't try to make his case any further, or ask why the captain had found him so trustworthy.

“It helps in this line of work to know when someone might stab you in the back,” Hafar explained. He tucked his amber necklace down the front of his shirt and under his beard again to lie with the rest of them, of which there were several of varying metals and hues. Fara caught a momentary sight of the rune of Asa, who every Eastern dwarf knew as the God of Storms – but somehow the sigil Captain Jazrul wore was different. As Fara had looked at it, he had almost felt the rush of wind inside his body and the crash of the sea in his ears, and his gaze was only broken by the sound of Hafar knocking his cane against the floor loudly.

“I'm sure there are others more worthy than me to enter into your service,” Fara said quickly. Varhi had come in after delivering the note Hafar had written, making it clear by his lofty gaze that acceptance with the captain was a far cry from acceptance as a member of the ship. Hafar leaned across the table, and his fingers were warm on Fara's skin. He closed his eyes, his mind now allowed to slow down, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship.

“But none of them ran into me at the right time.” 

* * *

 

Hafar inhaled the smoke from his pipe deeply, feeling it cover his teeth and tongue with spice and incense. Varhi joined him after a moment, sitting on a barrel beside him and kicking an empty box from the unload.

“This isn't an orphanage, Hafi.”

Hafar stood, looking out to the sea that frothed at the cave mouth. In the morning they would make for Umbar again after spending long enough at port. The captain felt the ache in his hip sharply remind him of the knock he'd taken, and he sat on the edge of the ship, drawing in lungfuls of salty night air and singing an old sea tune to himself, an ode to Olou and Asa.

“You saw Fara up there. He's quick. He knows these streets. He can be trained up, disciplined-” he mumbled, eyes closed. Varhi came up behind him, and he felt his first mate's hand on his shoulder.

“He's a scrap-thief. I've seen him before around the tradehalls peddling stuff,” Varhi said. Hafar opened his eyes and looked at him reproachfully, and the embers of his pipe made his skin glow with orange. He stayed silent.

“I know why you decided to give him a chance.” Varhi sighed, tapping out his third pipe of the night. Hafar said nothing, but pulled at his clothes; the wind had picked up again and it was time for him to retire and make ready for an early start.

“I see a lot of your brother in him as well. Mostly the reckless disregard for his own safety,” the Blacklock grunted, and Hafar couldn't help snort. Emotions he'd long forgotten surged in his chest, and he wasn't sure that the night before setting out to sea again was the best time to deal with them.

“Until the morning, Varhi. Don't judge him too harshly. I didn't get such a skilled crew by only recruiting the seasoned Corsairs from the coast. You know that yourself.”


	5. The First Sighting

“There – can't you see it?”

Lumkha looked up, mildly uninterested at Borlan's excitement. He was a new dwarf that had arrived from the Ered Luin about a fortnight ago, and after a minute of trying to get a better view from standing on tip-toes, he climbed onto of a nearby metal block that acted as a mooring point.

“Careful,” she said, wincing at the thought of the dwarf slipping on the wet rock and getting a crack to his testicles. He ignored her, however, squinting into the mist that lay thick over the water out of the Bay of Corsairs, and out further into the open sea. Lumkha couldn't see anything but the blackness of a night with little moon, and whenever it appeared, it dipped behind clouds for longer than it lit up anything out to sea.

“No – now! The moon's shining on it!”

The dwarrowdam gave Borlan a long stare, deciding whether or not to humour him. She wasn't in the mood to endure his huffs and nudges any longer though; and with a sigh, she looked out to where his outstretched hand was waving.

At first, Lumkha was going to say that she couldn't see anything, and that Borlan must be either an idiot or need his eyes testing. She only had a few minutes before the meeting began on the other side of the harbour, but after her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she did see... well, what _was_ that?

The moon reappeared, and for a second before it went, she swore to Olou that she made out the silvery outline of a grey set of sails and masts far out, near the toppled monument to Ar Pharazon.

Lumkha stilled, trying to focus on it. It seemed to be moving – more flickering – one moment fading into sight and invisible the next. As she turned back to Borlan, she saw that he stood, like her, transfixed, his freckled brow knitted in frustration.

“It's The Family Name.”

“What?” The Ironfist said sharply, and Borlan jumped a little bit, catching his balance before he slipped.

“I mean, look at it,” he said, stepping down and leaning on Lumkha's shoulder in the process. “It's _not of this world_ , is it?”

Lumkha looked again.

“The Family Name isn't real,” she said, linking her arms over her chest. “It's a myth some of the Corsairs believe”.

Borlan exhaled heavily and rolled his eyes. 

“You really think there's a ghost ship?” she smirked, as she took a seat back down on the mooring block. Glancing back out to sea, Lumkha checked again – just to be sure. Nothing. The wind was up, and a stiff breeze ruffled the sails on the ships before them. Must have been an effect on the water – a reflection.

“I _know_ people who've seen it! I heard... I heard just the other day that people were looking for the ship – The Family Name _,_ that is.” Borlan was gesticulating out to sea again with one metallic clawed hand, the other rubbing his forehead. Reaching into her breast pocket, Lumkha fumbled around for her rolling pouch.

“Don't doubt it,” she said casually, every so often her eyes flicking back up and out to the water and then down to her hands as they melded some loose tobacco into the middle of a paper.

“What with all the money that 'ghost captain' has got. Don't the _Dimburshan_ send him one thousand gold pieces every month because they believe he's actually a spirit of good fortune?”

Borlan nodded, eyeing Lumkha's pouch covetously. The dwarrow gave in and tossed him it with a flick of her hand, before tucking the cigarette between her lips.

“Mahal, that rumour's been around for a while,” she said, and Borlan shot her a reproachful glare.

“The protection works,” he said finally. “The Corsair captains aren't stupid. Maybe,” he added, leering up at Lumkha, “that's the reason your own vessel is doing so pitifully.”

The Ironfist's eyebrow shot up, and she bared her teeth.

“Because I don't send money off for some pirate scam-artist to bag?” She yelled in laughter, the harsh cry echoing in the silence.

“I don't need protection from a ship that isn't real. I don't care what powers a few Corsairs reckon it has.”

There was a tangible awkward silence, and Borlan, stretching and faking a yawn, said it was his turn to leave. Lumkha watched his back as it faded into darkness a few metres away, and turned to the water. She squinted again... it had been under the moon, to the left of it.

Again, the ship flickered, like a broken light turning on and off again. Her jaw clenched, but she stayed absolutely still, her cigarette forgotten. There was no mistaking it, though she hadn't wanted to agree with Borlan. There was something about it that wasn't right.

“My telescope... fuck, it's back at the ship,” she muttered to herself, and pushing off from her perch, she set off towards the beach far down on the shore.

The rumours of The Family Name were almost fact – aside from her and a few others, most of the sailors around the South believed in the captain and the legendary ghost ship, though 'ghost' wasn't a word that people from the South or East of the World would use. Some said it was captained by a demon, an _engeha-djebre –_ the souls of those twisted by Sauron and doomed to exist in an inhuman form _,_ while others said that it was a vessel of the Sea God, Olou, patrolling the waters. All agreed, though, that its sight was a bad omen; the rare tales that came from men claiming to have seen it always went along the same lines: no people on board, and the storms that followed it were horrendous, drowning those that had said to have incurred the captain's wrath. With a legacy built up from the northern end of Dale down to the furthest reaches of Harad, no wonder there were people on the docks looking for it. There always were.

Lumkha had never believed in it. She didn't know if it was because it frightened her too much or if she was too skeptical to believe it was anything more than a politically-savvy conjurer– a little of both, she admitted. She had seen the raven though, the one that collected the Corsair's gold for payment each month, _'protection payment'_ as the captains called it. It wasn't like any raven she'd ever seen; it was a scrawny, pure white bird with red eyes, that looked always ready to swipe the hand off of a sailor as well as the pouch of coins proffered to it.

From where Lumkha stood on the beach, the ship had stayed constant for a few minutes, no longer flickering but still swimming in a smoky grey mist. The moon illuminated her skin as it dipped behind shreds of cloud high above her, and the dwarf's brow furrowed. Toying distractedly at her strands of thick beard, she couldn't make out a name on the ship's side – it was much too far away and too dark. She gave a little start as the ship vanished again. A small snort escaped the dwarf's nose in a chuckle: some wizard it was that couldn't cast an enchantment spell correctly on his own ship.

Realising that she'd lingered for long enough on the beach, Lumkha tossed her cigarette stub out into the sea; it floated for a few seconds, then was sucked out with the foam and into the bay and underwater. She didn't look back (forcing herself to resist temptation) as she stalked back up the dilapidated wooden slats to the harbour concourse. 

Ducking behind a closed fish stall, Lumkha slunk around the back-alleys of the harbour, keeping one hand out of instinct inside her breast pocket on the bone handle of her knife. The sputtering of lamplights, like the meagre flickering of the ship a few minutes before, cast a weak glow over some of the larger buildings – The Red Cap, the guards' offices, an apothecary. She quickly walked past these, remaining silent and close to the shadows of the walls. Now and again, a rowdy sailor would pass by in the distance, or a few together, and she heard the thump of music from far away: a traditional Haradi sea song, one of her favourites about the raising of Harad from the Sea at the dawn of time...

She was still humming the chorus to herself as she reached a door on the outskirts of the harbour, north of Umbar City. She eyed the nearby area. There was one old woman smoking on her doorstep, looking out into the bay with a washing cloth tucked under one arm, but Lumkha knew her as a neighbour here and not a spy...

 _Though,_ she thought grimly, _I wonder when the zigûren will start targeting the citizens to spy for them. If it hasn't begun already._

Slipping the key from her pocket, she quickly unlocked the door, stepping inside the house and shutting it in one fluid motion. From the outside it looked like a long abandoned storage house: the windows were smashed in, the roof was half falling off, and the floor inside was littered with empty boxes. Anybody who saw people go in or out might assume that it was a drug den or a shelter for the homeless, and would have no business anyway with the place. At least, that was what Lumkha had wanted people to believe when she'd been charged with selecting the headquarter's location.

Stepping gingerly over the cold floor, she made her way to the centre of the room. She groaned as she felt mice scurrying past her, cursing over and over again as she toed open the trapdoor that lay slightly ajar. As it fell open downwards, a warm light seeped out to briefly illuminate the whole room, cutting out in a second as Lumkha slipped through. Once again, the storehouse was an abandoned building to the harbour outside.

 

* * *

Lumkha's boots were wet, and she slipped down the last few rungs on the iron ladder with a hoarse shout. The voices from the room behind her stopped for a second, and there came a loud scrape of chairs.

“Just me!” she called breathlessly, wiping her hands from the rust and hurrying down the sandy corridor, past lamps that hung intermittently along the side of walls and the wooden scaffolding that held the tunnel up. A few metres down, she pushed open makeshift door to the central meeting space, breathing in the scent of damp, forgotten air mixed with odd tobacco smoke – of course, Varhi was here.

“Decided to take your time? I could be in The Red Cap by now,” the dwarf grumbled, yanking a chair beside him from the table. Lumkha sat down heavily, kicking her feet up to stretch her cramped legs.

“Borlan wanted to talk about some sort of spirit ship he saw. I got sidetracked.”

A man, one of the riders from the East near the shores of the Sea of Rhûn, let out a laugh and shook his head. “I ran into him a few days ago – came over on that ship from Ered Luin, didn't he? Bit green.”

Lumkha pressed her lips together, not wanting to mention anything else about what she'd seen. She made the mistake of meeting Varhi's eyes, though, and the dwarf gave her a knowing look.

“Bad omen, ghost ships are.” The dwarf let out an almighty belch, moaning as he patted his stomach. Lumkha gave him a prod and, after a few seconds of inner struggle, resigned to tell him – she'd never been very good at lying, especially to Varhi.

“Borlan thought it was The Family Name _,_ ” she said. “I thought it might have been my mind playing games with me.”

To her dismay, the chatter around the table stopped again, and she sighed.

“Look-”

“I _know_ you don't believe in it,” Varhi said tersely. Around her, the other dwarves and a few Men shifted, some peering at her with interest.

“Hafar's said he doesn't believe in this  _rubbish_ either,” she repeated challengingly, “and you do?” Lumkha stared down her nose at the dwarf as best she could from below him, but the Blacklock's face didn't so much as twitch, and she rolled her eyes. “And I know some of you do... but really, what has this got to do with our business?”

“Hafar's got his own views on the matter,” Varhi replied nonchalantly, taking a swig from his mug. “But I trust what the other Corsairs have told me. To answer your question, though,” he continued, ignoring Lumkha's disbelieving sigh, “It has everything to do with why we're here tonight.”

Lumkha stayed silent as Varhi offered the water jug around the table, pouring some for the man beside him.

“There's been an upsurge of zigûren sightings since the new survivors from Bozisha and Nilul arrived. Just today, my ship was targeted by one of their emissaries.” Lumkha looked up at Kikuk, the Eastern man beside Varhi. He sailed when he could with a Rhûni boat trading Dorwinion wine down to Harad, and he suddenly looked tired, the usual mischievous glint faded from his eyes. He shook his head sadly as he raised his glass halfway to his lips. 

“Their faces were masked. They wore no visible things I could see that would distinguish them from anyone else. They asked the captain what he did and about the ship. Then they said they were looking for a great captain of Men to help them in the fight against Gondor and if my ship would be an ally – the same words we've been hearing recently – but this time, they said something different.”

“They said they were looking for The Family Name,” Varhi said, glancing over at the Ironfist.

Lumkha studied her hands for a long while. She could hear her blood pounding in her ears, and refrained out of respect from speaking. 

“The Zigûr, wherever he is, or whoever works for him now, obviously thinks the legend is real. As do most of the Corsairs-” another dwarf said loudly. It was a giggly ( _albeit pretty_ , Lumkha thought) dwarf with deep auburn hair, who seemed to always be too cheerful at these updates, and Lumkha jerked her head irritably.

“If you ask me, Lums, those who don't think The Family Name is real are at a minority these days,” she laughed. The other dwarrow shot her a withering look, but still said nothing.

“Fine,” she spat, after the quietness in the room got too much for her to deal with. Varhi was picking a piece of thread from the hem of his tunic, while Kikuk prised a bottle open with his teeth carefully.

“I still don't think she believes it-” he said, with his mouth half full. The dwarf sighed.

“At this point," she said, forcing her calmness, "I don't think it matters. From what you've said, the zigûren aren't going to give up looking for this ship, and they've already started with us-”

“Where did you say it was?” Varhi asked quickly.

Lumkha hesitated for a second, trying to remember enough to give the group some semblance of a picture. “Just off shore, if it even was the-”

“What did it look like?”

She might have buried her head in her hands and screamed – not even fifteen minutes in and she was already being interrogated. Resisting the urge to leave for the night, she looked up to the sky above the floor and the ruins they sat in, and asked Mahal to bless her.

The speaker was an older dwarrowdam merchant, not a seafarer. Her face was lined and loose, hair braided and pined up underneath a twisted headscarf. She reminded Lumkha a little of her own mother, and maybe this was why she respected her more than the others, though she seldom spoke and preferred to keep to herself, driving her herb caravan up and down the Azuladun Road and only appearing in Umbar for meetings.

“What did it look like, child – speak up!” Amad Zina fumbled for a second in her bag on the table before her, eventually pulling out a brass hearing trumpet and placing it to her ear. “Yes?”

“It...” Lumkha began loudly, feeling her face tingle in embarrassment as she half-yelled across the table to the older woman, who had an expression of deep concentration on her face.

“It had four sails, seemed to flicker – just off shore. Looked like it disappeared a lot. It was grey, wispy...” Lumkha tried to wring out any more information from her mind, cringing at 'wispy'- _really_? “I think – I think, I'm not sure... the figurehead was some sort of sea creature with tentacles.”

That was all she could give, and she sat back down from where she had been hunching over the table. A candle in the lamp above them went out as a draft blew up from an air vent, ruffling the papers that were secured to the table with a knife.

A small smile spread over Amad's face.

“Yes. 'bout a few years ago, can't remember the exact year, but yes. I saw that same ship off the coastlines of Ered Luin – sea creature and all.” She nodded emphatically to Lumkha, then eyed the rest of the table and leaned closer, the trumpet still cupped to her ear. “Hideous storm after, though. Nearly wiped out all the men on board nearby ships...”

Varhi made the sign of Mahal, muttering something under his breath that made Amad Zina scowl.

“Wait- _you've_ seen it?” Lumkha asked. Zina's milky eyes studied her slowly, and she seemed to be chewing over something.

“Of course, child. I have better things to do than sit here lying about if I've seen a ship or not.”

Zina would say no more, though Lumkha's eyes didn't leave her as she settled back in her seat. The brown-haired dwarf to her right handed her a cup of her own herbal drink, and she accepted it with a nod.

If there was one person Lumkha did believe, out of all the people affiliated with the _Lai n'Abar_ , it was Mother Zina. And now... now that she saw no trace of confusion or uncertainty in her face, she turned back to Varhi, who now rested his chin in his hand.

“So, as we've been saying,” he began slowly, not meeting her eyes and in the same sentence jiggling the knife free from the table. He handed a notice to Kikuk, who looked like he'd already read it from the table top.

“Kee, pass this to our contacts in Oszrahank. You'll be there before me, but it's best to inform the Clan leaders if any activity comes their way.” Kikuk sighed as he skimmed over the runes.

“Lumkha – you headed back to Nazbukhrin any time soon?” The dwarf pulled at a second piece of paper, and Lumkha, from the rim of her glass, saw it was headed with an official stamp.

“This is the sort of stuff Hafar writes on when he wants to get the Queen's attention, but I'm not due back at the ship. Need to stay here in case anything else happens, but this report has all of the information we've gathered so far.” He waved the slip in her face and the other dwarf snatched at it.

“Fine, but you're costing me-”

“If I remember correctly,” a brash voice echoed from the far side of the table, “you're smuggling rather than raiding now, right?”

Lumkha felt her face flush, her shoulders tense. She stared into the eyes of the speaker with unhidden contempt; it was no one she really cared about.

“So?” she was about to snarl- but she knew better as Varhi stood up to call order.

It was true that she'd made too many enemies now, forced to tone down. That was one of the drawbacks of being in the _Lai n'Abar_ – she was forced to sit in rooms with crew members from those ships she would have heartily run aground had they strayed too far near her roaming spot on the Eastern Strait. Knock-off rum it was – for now.

“Personal issues aside,” Varhi shot Lumkha a glare, “it remains that we need to meet more frequently than we first thought, now that it seems the zigûren have their eyes on the coast of Umbar for more than just Corsair ships. Captain Hafar Jazrul, though he can't be here, says that he's had no new contact with ships, and so the number of vessels in the Lai n'Abar stands at thirteen.”

“Find another one!” Amad Zina cried, her arms flailing so much that she almost knocked another man's mug of drink, and had to be quietened down. Lumkha felt a nudge in her side and raised her brows at a quiet dwarf who hadn't spoken much ever since he joined the resistance movement's ranks: a dark-skinned Stonefoot dwarf with long sleek hair, who, despite looking very young, radiated a calmness that reminded Lumkha of Captain Hafar a lot.

“Why don't we get the captain of The Family Name to join us before the zigûren get to him, huh? Then we'd be lucky indeed!” The dwarf woman rolled her eyes at this, but she had to press her mouth tight together to fend off a smile.

Rapping on the glass of a candle-holder, Varhi cleared his throat. “In other news, I got sent a raven yesterday from Captain Jazrul saying that Akhsan requested a meeting.” Here, several pairs of eyes narrowed in anxiousness.

“So Akhsan knows that evil is growing?” a sharp-eyed Haradi ambassador queried. Varhi shrugged again in reply.

“Never tells Hafar what they want until they are there – and that will be soon enough. We wait for further instruction. In the mean time – urgh-” the dwarf stretched, waving one hand in the direction of the door. “Keep an eye out. You know where to find me and Lumkha if you should report anything new happening. And any news about sightings of The Family Name – and new things the zigûren are after - straight to me!”

The gathering filed out, one after the other bidding their goodbyes and climbing up the ladder again to the surface. They left in staggered times so as not to cause suspicion: Kikuk went first; then Amad Zina, who was supported and followed by Owuswin, the Haradi ambassador; then Birhaba, the Blacklock, giggly dwarf, who smiled at Lumkha as she waved goodnight. Lumkha often marveled at the mix of people that the Lai n'Abar was made of. Sometimes when she was feeling particularly fond for the gang, it made her smile to think how, all those years ago, a band of fighters from the far reaches of Middle-Earth were brought together by two Eastern wizards against the rise of Sauron, and how through the Ages it had endured into today.

“Do you ever see Akhsan?” Lumkha asked Varhi, as he tutted at a bolt coming loose at the bottom of the ladder.

“Not really. That's more Hafar's business, and that one seldom comes out of their hole in Khand.” The large dwarf kicked the bolt with his boot. “He covers his face; I've only ever seen his eyes.”

Lumkha suppressed a tut at this – she didn't know whether to find the air of mystique surrounding the Lai's leader intriguing or pretentious.

“And how's... oh, what's his name?” she said idly, watching the last of the party carefully close the trapdoor behind them.

“Fara? Oh,” a little grin crossed Varhi's face as he leant on the ladder, scowling at it as it jerked, “he's doing fine. It's been... let me see, a year now.”

The huge dwarf twisted the end of his beard, tracing the thick ring that held it together in a large braid.

“Hafar's always making him read. Poor lad must have got through half the annals ever scribed in all of the East by now,” he snorted.

Lumkha stilled and motioned Varhi to be silent, hearing, far off, the sound of the trapdoor slowly opening again.

“Back,” Varhi commanded her, and Lumkha's hand immediately went to her side to grip her knife. The crisp grind of metal inflamed her blood as Varhi drew his own sword in an instant, readying himself and pushing the slighter woman to his side.

“Ever taken a zigûren's head off?”

Lumkha shook her head, trying to pierce through the gloom at the top of long ladder.

“First time for everything,” she said with a smile.

 


	6. A Rider from An Karagmir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the Potter reference :P

The rider came in the night from An Karagmir. Guiding his horse through the winding streets of Umbar, he found his way to the citadel quickly, and the guards that stood at the front of the High Buildings parted in fear.

He halted and dismounted near the entrance to the Ivory Hall with a soft rush of air. He was a small, slender person, dressed entirely in black – a black cloak and hood, a black veil, black gloves. Though at first the Hall Guards stopped him, something made them fall back after a moment. The lamplight filtering out of the surrounding windows revealed their faces sharply: they were blank in an almost blissful expression. Not long after, the main set of doors opened to allow the horseman entry and, with a servant of the hall running alongside him in escort, he entered the Queen's hall.

Queen Althidi was already up, sitting by the window seat across from the rider as he entered. Looking over her shoulder, she gathered up her pale blue robe and inclined her head, bidding the servant to leave them be.

“I had word of your coming,” she said, not offering any other explanation. The rider eyed the central fire grate where a drink was bubbling.

“Your eyes reach as far as ever, my Queen.”

His accent was soft, and Althidi stored it away in her mind for any future use. It was from the sands to the north of the Azuladun, she guessed, and not from An Karagmir, though the rider definitely came from that way – or so her spies had told her. She did not ask the rider to remove his cloak, for she knew simply that he wouldn't. Instead, she motioned for him to take a seat. He stood instead, remaining a thin shadow against the deep blue of the room.

“This is about the zigûren?” she asked him lightly, though there was no reason for the question to ever be posed; she had known and expected the rider since she met with her cabinet, since the latest raid on Nilul. The figure paced around the fire to warm himself, and the sparks of ash flew up as his cloak disturbed the humid air of the court.

“You know, no doubt, that movements have started once again in the most ancient An Karagmir. The Zigûr starts afresh. He is gathering all Men to him.”

Althidi sat down in the high-backed chair across from the fire, swirling her cup of coffee erratically. She'd often thought about what she would say, but now that it had come to this, her words felt nervous and disjointed.

“And does the Zigûr wish Umbar to make an allegiance with him?”

The rider stopped his pacing, and though she could not see it, she knew his face was turned towards her.

“It would be for the best,” he said. The man's voice had now lost some of its charming edge to the queen's ears, and she sat up a little straighter. “It is clear that the people of Umbar are loosing hope. There is one who could give it to them. One who only seeks to bolster the defenses of his most prized City and strike out against the Men of the West.”

Althidi bit her tongue, saying nothing, and cast her gaze into the fire – to her, it seemed that the shape of the Eye stared back out at her from the flames, wreathed in a dangerous orange light.

“The Corsairs are wary of you,” she replied. “I've heard that zigûren Men have been on the harbour and asking them questions. Some have reported their discomfort to me.” Here, the man laughed – it grated at Althidi like sand rubbed into her skin. He strode closer to her; but though Althidi kept her hands clenched around her mug, she didn't say anything else.

“Then you know whom the Zigûr now seeks to make the Corsairs the mightiest fleet that the World has ever seen?”

This was news to Althidi and, slightly relieved that the rider had changed track, she looked up in interest.

“I haven't heard any names yet, if you mean you're looking for someone. If you tell me, I can see what I can do for you.” She meant no such thing.

The zigûren captain seemed to ponder for a moment. “You've heard,” he said, tightening the grip on the pommel of his sword, “the legend of The Family Name?”

Althidi nodded, but now a small tinge of doubt crossed her mind, and she shifted in her seat.

“An invisible ship?” she added, raising her brow sceptically. _For how could you catch smoke?_ The dark veil the zigûren hid his face beneath twitched in a smile: “Not invisible to the All-Seeing, with my due respect my Queen. But this would not be a ship for conquering, but to head up a Corsair garrison that would sail out of Umbar at your behest – the Zigûr only ever wishes to have your word on it.”

The man was silent now, and Althidi looked away, feeling at once scrutinised.

“I say neither yea or nay for the present moment, sir,” she added delicately, her mind racing. “Though I thank you for your travels to my Hall. If any word of this captain comes to my ears, An Karagmir will know.” She smiled up graciously at the rider, disconcerted that she could not even see his eyes, but nevertheless she looked in their rough direction. The rider bowed.

“Any word, my Queen, will lead to the Zigûr's favour.”

Althidi stood and motioned to the other cup laid out on the side-table. “Won't you drink?” The man only shook his head and tugged his cloak about him. His shoulders dropped a little as he turned around, walking with Althidi back towards the main door. “There's more work to be done here. There's word that The Family Name is close by to Umbar's waters; not an hour ago it was seen off the shores.”

“Though it can travel over time and space at will, as the legend goes?” Althidi questioned – she'd heard so many tales of it that she had a hard time believing what was true about the ship and what wasn't. The rider paused.

“That's _one_ of the stories. All captains must come ashore occasionally, though.”

With a touch of two fingers to his brow, the captain was back away again into the night. Standing at the entrance to the courtyard, Althidi was silent as the beat of hooves echoed upon the paved ground, fading as he rode out of sight. There was much to think about, and as Althidi closed the door, her guards eyed the retreating horse shrewdly.

“Didn't like his attitude.”

Althidi turned to see Haidi walking towards her from the stairwell that led down to the kitchen galleries, a foul expression pronounced on the Chancellor's face. Her entrance was followed by a soft mewling around the queen's ankles, and looking down she saw one of her many cats entwining itself through her legs, looking up at her with bright eyes.

“Come,” Althidi said, picking up the cat gently. Despite being feared for their tempers and the superstition of the cityfolk, Haidi's cats appeared to have a natural affinity for her, and always purred in greeting in the mornings when she would find one or two sitting on her bedroom windowsill. Haidi followed her, and rounding the corner they came to one of the more secluded spots, in an alley between two of the buildings. They came here often to discuss more private matters: there were no windows high above it, no ventilation vents where servants or cooks could overhear anything, and it was well protected from both ends by palace guards. The yellow moon was at its fullest now, its glow radiating off the rough walls of the buildings and the courtyard's well-kept stonework. No lights were on in the buildings nearest to them; though Althidi knew that work never did cease in Umbar or the Citadel, it seemed that for now the City slept.

“So, it's The Family Name?” Haidi whispered, coming to a stop with her back to the wall, the white cat of hers still perched happily on the queen's shoulder. Now purring happily, Althidi glanced at the cat suspiciously. She should have known she and the rider weren't alone in the room.

“He asked me to keep an eye out for any sightings. The zigûren want the ship to head up a fleet and move against Gondor.” Here, Haidi rolled her eyes, and Althidi knew what her feelings were without her even saying anything:

“Really? And I suppose if you refused to work with the Zigûr they would just back off nicely and not trouble Umbar?” she said with her arms crossed over her chest. Another cat joined them, this one a dark haired one, so black that it blended into the night aside from its large green eyes peering owlishly up at them both.

“What of the Admiral?” Althidi said, checking over her shoulder at the exit to the alley behind her. 

“He will be in Dale when we expected it,” said Haidi. Althidi nodded.

“The Family Name is not our priority until the Admiral is dealt with,” the she said, drawing her robes tighter around her as the night dropped colder. 

“A shame,” Haidi responded, her tone laced thickly with sarcasm, “I bet the Coastal Captain would like to meet the being that he sends half his wage to in protection payment each month.” Althidi had, like all in Umbar who hung around enough seafaring folk, heard enough tales of whirlwinds, snapped hulls and sailors cast to the rocks. And while the mention of The Family Name peaked her interest, now that they had taken so long to pin him down, the Admiral's short trip up to Dale to hobnob with Mannish elite would prove too useful to miss.

“If you're looking for a cheap way to get the job done,” Haidi said, referring back to an earlier conversation, “then I can recommend some people who would be happy to help out. With respect for the utmost secrecy in connection to the ruling house of Umbar.”

It was a basic plan, but it should buy them some time at least. Assassination had never been off the cards.

“Skilled enough?”

“Enough to make it look like he drowned. Or got himself into a fight he shouldn't have,” Haidi said with a smirk on her thin lips. “If you haven't heard of them, they're a group of resistance fighters – my contacts – a mixed bunch. They call themselves the _Lai n'Abar_.”

Althidi mulled over their title for a moment - “The Cult of Freedom?” she asked, recognising the Black Adunaic name from somewhere before.

“They are usually the ones I go to.” The woman pulled a brass watch from her pocket and studied it. “If you'd like to catch them, I believe they're still in their meeting tonight,” Haidi said, “I had to miss this one.”

Throwing a dark blue shawl over her head, the Queen started off following the way the horse had come. The streets were busy towards the central quarter, but she kept away to a path she knew was secluded yet safe. As she dropped through each ring towards the harbour, the air became fresher, the tang of minerals heavy as she passed through the gate and ran across the water's edge. She chanced a look towards the open water – surely there hadn't been any sightings of The Family Name? But she could see nothing apart from a few local fish barges moored and bobbing, a few ships, and an absolute darkness towards the mountainous country that flanked the mouth of the bay. Althidi jogged now up the path, her long dress half hitched up around her ankles, as she tried to remember the exact directions her chancellor had given her before she had parted down to one of her many haunts to listen out for more information on The Family Name's whereabouts. Though it wasn't their priority, as she had firmly told herself, Althidi was curious and if she admitted, a little anxious, to get information about its captain before the zigûren did.

She stopped at what she thought was the house that she'd been directed to – she stared at it for some time. It was a dilapidated shack, and Althidi could swear there was a horrible smell coming from it. Pulling her shawl over her mouth, she crept forwards to look inside. There was nothing immediately visible to the casual onlooker, and she had thought at first it was deserted, a disused storehouse. After a few seconds of her eyes getting accustomed to the gloom, she noticed a soft glow coming from a triangle on the floor, and in the middle was a brass handle.

Breathing now through her mouth, Althidi entered, and then crouched to pull up the trap door; she almost pulled the rusting handle clean off before heaving it to one side. The spill of light from below her lit up the house for a second, and she cursed as the was momentarily dazed. She couldn't see anybody below, but Haidi had said that the dwarf she had in mind would still be down there if the light was on...

 

* * *

 

Lukhma first saw a shoe; but she stilled Varhi's hand. It wasn't a man's shoe. It was a neat silver heel, and a slender ankle boot before the hem of a ruffled dark silk dress was revealed.

“Haidi?” Varhi said, without dropping his sword. He was restless and moved back as the ladder gave a creak again, the bolt jarring in its slot.

“Haidi wouldn't wear that,” Lukhma answered, and watched the foot as the body descended afterwards.

As the queen turned to face them both, Lumkha dropped her knife slightly, noting the soft reassurance in the woman's eyes. She'd not seen her before, though she knew well who she was.

“My Lady,” Varhi said brusquely, bowing in the fashion of the dwarves. Lumkha quickly did the same, trying not to stare too much, as if her visit wasn't out of the ordinary. _How-_

“Good evening, my dwarves,” Althidi said, and to Lumkha, her voice was gentler than she'd imagined it to be. The woman slung her shawl back around her neck so her head was revealed, a strip of burnished gold shining from the centre of her black hair, which fell in ringlets down her back and slim shoulders. She bowed in return, laying a hand over her breast.

“Althidi, Queen of the Ruling House of Umbar, at your service.”

“Lumkha, of the Lai n'Abar at yours,” the dwarf said. Without missing a beat, the taller dwarf beside her saluted again: “Varhi Iskbanal, of the Nazbukhrin and the Lai n'Abar.”

The queen looked surprised for a split second, then her face rearranged itself into something more placid.

“The Nazbukhrin? I know of that ship and Hafar,” she said, nodding to Varhi. The Blacklock grunted. “He gets around,” he replied.

“How did you know where to find us? Did Hafar tell you then?” said Lumkha, a little more forcefully than she had planned. She rose up to her full height (standing about a head shorter than the dwarf beside her), and her boxy jaw jutted out in defiance. Althidi stepped back, her almond-shaped eyes unblinking as she fixed Lumkha with a stare. Beside her, Varhi hissed something unintelligible at her in Khuzdul.

"Haidi said she works with you. I was surprised that I've not known about you before," Althidi said, her smile now a little strained at the corner of her mouth. The way the queen didn't drop her gaze was unsettling, but after a few seconds of silence she peered past them both into the drawing room.

“The meeting just finished,” Varhi said as way of explanation as to the room's emptiness. “Haidi didn't say you would be down; had we known we would have stayed.”

Althidi dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand, her bangles clinking together faintly under her wide sleeves.

“No matter- actually, the business I'm on is quite private,” she replied. She turned to Lumkha, inclining her head. “I need to speak with _you_.” She smiled apologetically at Varhi: “alone,” she added.

This was lost on Lumkha, and the dwarf simply stood in place before Varhi nudged her shin with the tip of his boot. At once, she could feel herself cringing inside at the other dwarf's passive face.

“Go, then,” Varhi said bluntly.

“Varhi's one of the senior officers, and might be more suited to-” Lumkha interjected -

“It was _you_ specifically who Haidi recommended,” the queen said quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, Lumkha could see Varhi's eyes screw up shrewdly. He flung one large hand out towards the backroom, stepping aside and resheathing his knife.

“Be quick – I don't want to be down here forever!” he called to the retreating pair.

* * *

 

Lumkha hurried ahead of the queen. Something about the way the her boots clicked on the floor of the tunnel annoyed her, and she was glad when they took a seat at the table in the halflight where the candles had been extinguished. The room was now lit by a lamp that always burned – it was something Hafar had bought long ago already aflame, and it was, he said, enchanted to never go out. Around the walls, if you had the eye for that sort of thing, was an array of devices and hidden enchantments – from the runes over the doorframes in the fashion of the dwarves and Men, to hidden faces carved into the wood of the supporting slats of the roof, their gnarled eyes gazing down on the gatherers.

“You're trained as an assassin, aren't you?”

The sudden question made Lumkha jerk where she sat, and her black eyes wildly met the queen's.

“That was something in my past – I haven't in years,” she said dismissively, her teeth bared in a grimace. She eyed the closed door behind Althidi's back, sitting up a little straighter.

“There are others who could do this, whatever this is,” Lumkha said. She nodded towards where she knew her friend would be stood guard, “Varhi could easily-”

“I need to be back at the citadel shortly; I can't stay long,” the queen said waspishly. Her soft voice now had an urgent, hushed edge to it. “This is about the Admiral of Gondor.”

The dwarf didn't know she had to say something until it was clear that Lumkha had to do the prompting.

“Right.” She looked down at the scrubbed wood of the table. Immediately, the old sorts of questions bubbled to the surface: _would it be worth her while? Would it pay well? What would the best way be to dispatch an Admiral – he would be heavily guarded, surely..._

“I can't,” Lumkha said. It fell from her lips faster than she could process it, past the thoughts that were goading her to accept. Hadn't this been what she'd wanted ever since the first of the raids began? At the news of friend and Corsair death, at the news of Gondor razing the lands, hadn't this been what had burned in her heart?

“I'm past being an – a contract killer.” Her voice seemed foreign to her even as she spoke. She heard the dangerous, dark undertones to it, the edge that only the blackest and most anger-filled thoughts could bring about. It was how she had used to be before she joined the Lai n'Abar at Hafar's request, when he had bandaged her up after a particularly nasty fight she'd got herself into – picked the wrong Corsair in a harbourside brawl when she'd sunk her first ship for payment. Nowadays, she'd just been working on clearing the backlog of enemies she'd created for herself.

 _"For a good reason!"_ Varhi had reassured her, after spotting her glaring a little too much at other Corsairs boasting about their plunders and conquests. " _Piracy, and all that comes with it, is overrated."_ But not when you had gold dripping from your ears...

She raised her eyes to the queen's. She detected sympathy. She _hated_ sympathy.

“Fine.”

The woman's eyes hardened, and Lumkha knew well the business-like stare that met hers as she drew a slip of paper from a cloak-pocket. It was the look of a Corsair; befitting for their queen. But even as the queen laid down a map of somewhere in front of Lumkha, her insides twisted again. _What would she tell Varhi?_ she thought in embarrassment. Althidi's lips stilled – had she been talking?

“Are you sure you can go through with this?” she asked. Lumkha jerked her head – she wasn't sure herself if that meant it was a 'yes' or a 'no' - but against her better judgement, her lips stayed shut tight. She focused on the paper, trying to make out the lines of the city.

“Dale?” she asked in surprise, raising a sleek eyebrow to the other woman.

“He'll be there to meet with officials from the city. We don't know what he's planning just yet, but there's no time to find out. Already he's done too much damage – you know we're not ready to send out any fleets of Corsairs.” Althidi's subdued voice was laced with sadness, and she looked away to the corner of the room. Lumkha knew how heavy the queen's heart must be to see the raids slowly creeping up the coastline, unable to do much. She hesitated briefly, and then she reached out to touch Althidi's slim hand, expecting to be rebuffed. The queen was still, her breathing shallow with frustrated tears.

“It's not your fault this is happening,” Lumkha said harshly. She couldn't look at the woman's face – she wasn't good with crying; even Varhi was better at her in dealing with sadness. But she tried to move her hand in a soft circular motion, giving up quickly as it turned into a kind of awkward pat. After a long moment, Lumkha heard with relief the Queen laughing a little. Her light eyes were very bright, and Lumkha offered her a small smile of reassurance.

* * *

So it was done. It was a short meeting, and with less ceremony than Lumkha had usually taken on contract kills in her youth. She affixed a cross and an 'L' rune to the parchment outlining the terms, and kept a copy for herself, which she slid into her trouser pocket. It was simple enough, but she left with a little glimmer of something she'd forgotten – something like passion. It made her heart beat again, it made her feel alive – and she tried, before she got out of the door, to wipe the smirk off of her face. She stopped to draw a length of red cloth from around her waist up around her head and twist it into an Orocarni-style headwrap, clenching a silver pin between her teeth. Althidi looked around her with interest, staring at one strange implement on the wall beside the clock.

“Foe-glass,” Lumkha said out of the side of her mouth. It was an object shaped like a mirror, but it showed only dark, hulking figures instead of anything solid, and to Lumkha when she'd first seen it, she thought it a gateway to something beyond this realm. Althidi looked away sharply. The dwarf cursed under her breath as the twist unraveled itself; she hadn't been paying attention. She set about again laying the cloth flat over her braids, then her hands began folding by themselves as she went over in her head the queen's orders. She hadn't been given, as she was sometimes, a set guidelines on how to kill the Admiral: she just had to make it quick, easy and as inauspicious as possible. To buy Umbar time, or perhaps if things went well, to sabotage further invasion completely.

Lumkha hadn't asked what might come after the Admiral's death – it wasn't really her place to know; she was, as she'd always been, hired hands. She secured her wrap again, wiping some perspiration from her forehead with one edge, then turning to bow to Althidi.

“Keep Haidi updated. You can reach me through her,” the queen said. She'd taken her shawl up again, and her deep eyes glittered from beneath it.

“I would be surprised if one of her cats wasn't listening in at the door,” the dwarf snorted as she made to push it open. As soon as she had laid a hand on the knob, she stilled.

“You know that the Corsairs are being visited by-” she began, but her voice trailed off, and she hissed in sharply through her nose. Something told her that she shouldn't have mentioned that. The queen looked a little tired and shook her head.

“A rider came from An Karagmir today. Of course, if you read behind his words, allegiance to the Zigûr from all the Corsair ships is the aim. Though there is one he seeks.” Althidi seemed to be reluctant to mention this to Lumkha; however, the dwarf knew already there was only one that the rider could have mentioned.

As they exited, Varhi was stood leaning against the wall outside, and heaved himself up when he saw them both.

“Taking your leave, my Lady?” he said, eyeing Althidi suspiciously. His eyes fell to Lumkha's right hand - it had moved quickly in an iglishmêk sign out of the corner of his eye: _later_.

Althidi's hand was already resting on the ladder. She didn't ascend immediately – it looked like there was more she would say but thought better of it, and she made do with bowing her head to the dwarves. In a few moments she was out of sight at the top, and the door banged open and shut – then there was nothing else.

A smile crept over Varhi's face. Lumkha sighed, glancing over at him irritably. “Please don't tell me you were listening.”

 


	7. Fara's Mistake

The morning after meeting Captain Jazrul, Fara awoke from the best night's sleep he'd had in weeks to the sight of clear blue sky and a chilling wind, with the Orocarni Mountains slowly getting increasingly more distant. For a while, he still believed it was somehow a joke, that Hafar had got it all wrong and the Queen's Guard would be sailing right after them or meeting them downriver. Every fifteen minutes, he would anxiously chance a peek over the ship's wide wale and down below them into the water. Each time, he pulled back sharply; the drop had been breathtaking when moored, but now the boat was rolling and pitching – and none too gently. But nobody came behind them apart from the few boats that joined them from Port Nazbukhrin's mouth – some Fara recognised as fishing clippers, some other merchants, and all were headed their way. In the distance to the West lay the Sea of Rhûn, surrounded by the green, sunlight-dappled hills that rolled up to meet the sky.

Soon afterwards and too tongue-tied to greet the others (though those that were about welcomed him with a jovial 'morning!'), he slunk back down into the living quarters and into his hammock, pulling his hood over his eyes. His stomach was tight and he'd not had anything to drink, but he willed himself back to sleep until he was either shaken awake or until he fell out of his bed. Not ten minutes had dragged by when he was jolted awake by Varhi's voice.  
“Up – the Captain wishes to speak to you.”

Fara almost fell over his own feet in an effort to comply, and ended up staggering right into the dwarf's back. To his slight relief, he only laughed, and said: “You'll find your water-legs soon enough.”

It was midday, and as Fara followed Varhi to the upper deck, he could smell the faint tang of smoke. A few of the other Men and dwarves were sitting on stools and eating, a pot braced on a small sand firepit in the middle, and Varhi nodded to some as he passed.  
“Not much, but you'll be fed when you're with us – if you don't expect several courses,” the dwarf said without looking. After crossing the deck to the Captain's Quarters, he opened the door and jerked his head inwards.

Captain Hafar was sitting at his desk, with another scarf tied around his neck. This one was red and matched a silk coat that was slung over the back of his chair. At another desk across the room sat one more dwarf, who was bent over her table studying a strange navigational model that Fara had never seen before. It seemed to be a spinning model of the Seas, with a sun rising over and under it.

“Very expensive,” said Hafar suddenly, and Fara jumped a little. He was leaning on the desk, and pushed out the chair on the other side with the ivory handle of his stick. The dwarrowdam didn't look up; she hadn't seemed to have noticed Fara standing over her shoulder.

“That's Ismer – she deals with the finer points of the navigation. One of the best star-scholars to come out of Ankruz,” Hafar said, and the woman lifted her head only long enough to bid Fara a firm nod, before sighing through her nose at the brass model before her. Fara slid into the seat Hafar was indicating with his cane, eyeing a small leather bag before him. He remembered where his old one was – somewhere broken in the streets of Nazbukhrin – and realised that he must still look like he'd come from the depths of prison: he was still in the same blood-drenched shirt that hadn't been washed, and his trousers and cloak were still ripped. He was a poor stitcher and he groaned inwardly at the thought of butchering the only clothes he had. From over his shoulder, Varhi gathered up the bag, looking down at Fara from under his heavy-lidded eyes.

“You'll be given some medicine and personal supplies, seeing that you didn't have an opportunity to bring any,” he said curtly, emptying the contents one by one onto the table, which, Fara noticed, was no less tidy than it had been yesterday night. Hafar leant over and smoothed down the fresh cotton shirt that had been laid out, then turned around each of the small glass bottles that had come with it.

“Your food rations will be given out as needed by the Quartermaster here,” he said, “that's Umowo. You'll see him later. As a ship, we share everything.” From underneath the small pile, Hafar pulled out a piece of parchment and laid it down, setting a small golden weight on top of it. “Our Agreement – but first-” Hafar indicated to Varhi with a wave of his hand, and the other dwarf sat on the edge of the table, pointing at each bottle as he spoke.

“We have a trained doctor on board the ship. I'll introduce you to Melia after lunch, but for the time being, here are some personal supplies to carry with you. The blue one is for seasickness,” he indicated a small see-through blue bottle, labelled with an S rune. “The purple is a mild painkiller. The red one is to cleanse a small cut. Also in that bag,” he pointed to a small cloth carrier bag, which looked to Fara like a makeup satchel, “is a few bandages for any scrapes, as well as a sewing kit.”

Fara felt himself deflate a little as he looked up at Varhi. His face was as stern as ever, and his gaze bored into Fara's until he looked away at the table top.  
“Aye, sir,” Fara said quietly. The boat gave a large lurch and the room shuddered. Everyone aside from Fara merely rolled along with it; he, on the other hand, flung out an arm and clawed onto the table edge, a moment of panic rising in him as his chair slid sideways.

“Also included is a comb and oil for your hair,” Vahi continued a little louder, ignoring Fara and drawing his attention to a much smaller bottle, “as well as some ties. We are still dwarves, despite being out at sea.” Fara nodded in understanding. Varhi's own thick beard was well-kept and short in the Blacklock fashion, weighted down at the end with a ring that matched the one through his nose. He wore his hair tied at the back, Fara had noticed, but down his shoulders his curls fell freely and shone in the lamplight. Varhi looked over the Agreement on the table and smirked. “Any thievery of possessions... Hafar will explain all of that.”

Somewhere on ship, a bell rang. Varhi heaved himself off the table and exited bidding the Captain a good-day, and Fara and Hafar were left alone at the desk with the sporadic whirs and clicks of Ismer's instrument for company.

“He doesn't like me,” Fara said – meaning for it to be a joke, but he found that he couldn't smile along with it, and instead his eyes fell again to his lap. The Captain was in the middle of drawing out a well of ink and a pen from under his desk.

“Him? Varhi will come around in time,” Captain Jazrul said with a dismissive snort. “I feel his squabble is more with me than with you.” With that, he flicked open the ink pot's silver lid and placed the pen down in front of Fara. His fingers seemed to hesitate, and he looked up briefly.

“You said you couldn't read well. Are you able-”

“A little, yes,” Fara replied defiantly. He looked down at the Agreement, and was heartened to see that it wasn't long and that he could read most of the words.

Despite this, he was relieved that Hafar took out a copy of the paper for himself, and fixing a pair of glasses on his nose, began to read aloud:  
“You are now a crewmember on board the dwarven ship called The Nazbukhrin. We are a merchant company sailing from Guthelabbad to Dale, and from Dale to Umbar, utilising the Sea of Rhûn and the Azuladun Canal-”

At this, he pointed to a wide map that hung on chains above Ismer's desk. The dwarf gave the pair a smile as she looked around, using a thin wand to tap the course of the journey. “That to there, and that to there – you don't have to know the specifics. If you're into that sort of stuff, just catch me and I'll show you some of the routes we take,” she said, giving Fara a wink.

“Thanks,” Fara replied, grateful at the momentary warmth from someone other than the Captain. Hafar cleared his throat, and Fara's gaze immediately turned back to the paper in front of him.

“The length of your service,” he carried on, “is dependent on your work and suitability.” Hafar smiled over the top of his paper, though the words to Fara's ears were ominous. “A clause I have in there just as standard; everyone onboard my ship is different and works for me for different reasons.” Fara looked back at Ismer, but the dwarf was at work again and silent, her back turned. “I would expect, however, to give you a trial period of a year. See how things shape up. If you don't like it, I can drop you off at Nazbukhrin on our next visit.”

At this, Fara didn't suppress his disbelieving laugh. “I've got nothing back there,” he stated grimly, unconsciously gripping the armrests of his chair. He was sharply reminded of his bandaged hand and pulled it back into his lap with a hiss of pain.

Hafar only nodded and adjusted his spectacles, his eyes going to the third point. “There are a few rules that I expect all crewmembers to adhere by: courtesy towards each other and respect towards the officers – that is myself, Varhi, Umowo and Ismer; no theft; no fighting. All disputes are settled by the officers, and you will have an agreed personal and meal allowance. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hafar tapped on the dotted line at the bottom of the signature, and Fara only had a brief moment of hesitation before he signed it. He had nothing to lose.

 

* * *

 

The second night was worse than the first. A storm whipped up the river, making the ship toss relentlessly in the waves and the crewmembers hold onto their hammocks or the low benches where they sat below deck. Ismer had come down from the Officer's Quarters to say that they should be out of the worst of it by the morning. While the others didn't look up from the card game that they'd started, Fara leaned into his corner and shut his eyes. His new pack was clutched in his good hand, and he rummaged through it blindly to find one of the bottles. He felt each rune as they passed over his fingers, moaning as the wind grew louder and the floorboards above him creaked. He found the one labelled _S_. What he really wanted was a bucket.

After a few minutes, he heard whispering on the other side of the room, now audible over the storm. The sound of footsteps drew closer, then he felt someone crouch down next to him. He didn't look, fearing that if he did he wouldn't make the greatest impression by impressively vomiting.

“You need this?” The soft chink of something being set down beside him made him open his eyes a faction. It was a bucket. Fara nodded, drawing it slowly up to his chin.

“Take a sip of the medication – it's going to help.”

Shakily, he unscrewed the cap and shook some of it into his mouth. It had a chalky taste, but it was sweet and spicy at the same time, and he managed to swallow some of it. Resting his head against the wall, he tried to manage his breathing, focussing on keeping still. The person beside him hadn't left, and he couldn't hear any more talking over at the table.

“Don't want to stop your game just 'cause I'm sick,” he ground out, forcing a smile. He felt a soft hand brush his knee, giving it a squeeze and then a groan as the Man lowered himself to sit.

“It's fine. Everyone gets a little sick during their first storm. Trust me, it's worse if we're at sea.”  
He had a calming, deep voice, and smelled of salt and sweat. Fara recognised it as Umowo, the Quartermaster, a man from Southern Harad who had made the afternoon's meal. He was more friendly with the crew than even Ismer was, and he told Fara, as they were walking down into the Crew's Quarters, that he never liked to stay for too long in his officer's cabin.

“It'll pass soon, just keep your head down or it will all be over,” he laughed.

An hour had passed, and Fara and Umowo were now at the table with the others. Fara had surprised himself by getting up, supported by the taller Man who had told him sternly to take it slowly. After sitting slumped for a while watching the game – which Umowo was loosing judging by the language he was using – he decided to take a sip of the weak ale that had been placed before him. He frowned; it was palatable, and he wasn't throwing up anymore.

“I win!” shouted one of the Men suddenly, grinning widely and slapping Umowo's bare shoulder. Fara's lips twitched in a smile as the Quartermaster set down his cards and laid his head in his hand, aiming a soft punch at his friend's arm.

“Leave off him, he's tired,” said a dwarf beside Fara. He leaned forward and took a sip of his drink, promptly pulling a face. “This whiskey's disgusting. Where's it from?”

“Rohan,” Umowo said, peeking up at the bottle beside him. The dwarf pushed the cup away, leaning back against one of the nearby wooden beams and taking out a pipe.

“That would be why. Not the right grain over there.”

The winner of the card game gathered the pack from the table and stacked them neatly in a pile near Fara. He nodded towards him, the dangling rings in his ears jerking.

“Hey, dark horse over there could be dangerous at cards. Are you?”

Fara smiled weakly and shook his head. The Man looked a little frightening in the dark – the light made his one-eyed face seem more jagged and angular, and his smile seem leering.

“Chess, though, I'm okay at,” he said in reply. At this, Umowo raised his head again (being also prodded from the side) and smiled.

“That's my game, brother! I promise you I won't lose that one if you play against me!” He shot a glare at the other Man. The dwarf next to Fara had lit his pipe and the smoke was lazily curling, blue-grey, up above their heads. Fara breathed in deeply – it was the stuff he used to smoke when he had a packet, and it was a comforting reminder of home. There were no other Ironfist dwarves he could see on the crew: on board the ship, it was him and Hafar.

“So,” he said, blowing a long smoke ring out, “apparently, you left a little abruptly, Fara.”

The conversation stopped again, but Fara, in his hammock last night, had prepared for this. He'd only really met the officers and then spoken to Umowo as he was about to take the watch after lunch, but now it seemed half the crew were here on the table, looking expectantly towards him. The one-eyed man mimed a scared face, and then moved his arms like he was running; the others laughed.

“Hey,” Umowo said quietly, “let him laugh about it in his own time.”

Fara shook his head. “It's fine. It's a... it's a long story.” 

The table jumped as the dwarf beside him sat up again sharply, turning to face him and resting his head down in his arms. “Good, some new stories then. Not the same made up crap Dabir gives us!”

The one-eyed man threw a hunk of bread at the dwarf's head; it missed and bounced off the wall.

“I think it's only polite,” said Umowo loudly, “that we introduce ourselves first. You know me-” he said, inclining his head in the place of a proper bow. “Umowo son of Berihun, at your service.”

Fara stood, placing one hand on the table so he didn't fall with the precarious motion of the ship.  
“Fara'ouz – or just Fara,” he said shakily. Umowo nodded, placing a hand on the other Man's shoulder.

“I'm Dabir. And my stories aren't made up!” he said, extending a large hand for Fara to shake. Now he was stood up, Fara could see that he was quite handsome, with long dark hair and a carefully trimmed beard.

“Yeah, about that time you battled a giant squid-beast? That one was real?” said the dwarf next to Fara. He offered him his pipe, and Fara gratefully accepted it, taking a long, steady draw. “Dwarf stuff, huh? Though Dabir says his Khandisgi stuff is just as good – I don't believe him,” the dwarf added in a whisper.

“Did you join the ship from Kikuama?” Fara asked, feeling now more relaxed with a familiar taste in the back of his throat. The dwarf was Stiffbeard, and wore his sleek hair tied back, the black tattoos that covered his arms appearing to move and ripple in the light. He shook his head, pinching his pipe out of Fara's fingers.

“No. Bunch of...” he muttered something indistinct under his breath, before taking a long pull. “I spent some time in Harabza with a Stonefoot traveler and got picked up there. Like you, I've got a... not so great history with my City.” He inclined his head down.  
“Axil, at your service!” Axil bowed with a flourish of his hand. “Upstairs there are six more of us Guthelabbad lot. You already know the Captain and Varhi-” he broke off with a wicked grin as Fara nodded grimly.  
“Doesn't like anybody until he gets to know them. Should have seen how he treated me for the first week I was on ship-”

“That was because you were a nuisance,” Dabir butted in.

“Then there's Ismer, she's the one who let me come aboard, and then three others. You'll see them at breakfast tomorrow – I think they're on night watch now.”

Fara shook hands with two more Men: a man from Rhûn, who might have actually been shorter than Varhi, and a stout woman from the Eastern Shore. Again, Axil laid his head on his arms and looked up at Fara with a small smile on his face: “Are you going to tell us, then?” he said, prodding Fara in his ribs annoyingly. Fara raised his eyebrow at Dabir, who shook his head in the place of not having anything to throw at him.

“Yeah, you get used to him.”

 

* * *

 

It had been a mistake. Fara kept on telling himself that, even as he was hauled off to the Court. He kept screaming it as his captors.

A chill had run down Fara's spine as soon as he'd wiggled himself through the archway that divided the little-used paths below from the last rows of shops, houses and guildhalls south of Nazbukhrin.

He was lost.

He knew was supposed to have gone the other way, past District Ze, taking the Central Road south and then on to the lower tier of streets. But in the darkness of this part of Nazbukhrin, the only way Fara could see his feet was by the lamp that he'd dropped a mile back. He was also freezing in his light jacket, and there were guards he didn't know patrolling the area. Every so often, Fara could run out under the noise of a cart rumbling past or if he saw one of the dwarves distracted from his watch.

After descending straight downwards on a steep singular path, Fara rested, sweat-drenched, with his back to a low wall. There were carts still coming up past him from somewhere, but not from the Port, and out of the corner of his eye Fara could see that they were driven by dwarves in heavy armour and the oxen wore helms and blinkers of steel.

Either, Fara said to himself, he was going to go on, or he was going to go back. His stomach gave a twinge and a gurgle, and the dwarf shut his eyes against the hunger and the shame of not having made any money for the third day in a row. He had to find something good to sell.  
“Make this count,” Fara hissed to himself, darting out from behind the wall and running down the pathway again, keeping low and hidden.

After ten more minutes of running, there was a dead-end. He groaned quietly in frustration, slapping his hand against the smooth rock and feeling cold sweat seep into his collar as his breathing evened out. Something struck him as odd. _Where had those carts come from?_

Fara paused, fingers idly tracing over the rock in front of him. It was much too smooth to be a natural dead-end, and soon he was pressed to the rock face, arms outstretched and an ear close to the stone. He could definitely hear something behind there – it was a faint whirring sound, a clunking sound – and then something else after a few seconds, the sound of hooves.

Fara darted out of the way and crouched down into a dark recess as the stone face split wide. Out of it rolled another two carts, illuminated by a dim glow. It was only a split second decision and Fara took it. As the stone door began to close, he ran, not daring to look at the carts that were trundling up to the street above and praying to Mahal that there would be somewhere inside to duck underneath. His heart was throbbing in his neck as he scrambled, unthinking, behind a rock corner and echoing loud behind him was the sharp crack of the doors closing again not five seconds later. The only thing he could hear now was something indistinct far down the path in front of him – for there was another path that wound down, but this one was lit intermittently by torches. There were no guards here, and no signs of any life at all, and Fara sat down with his forehead in his hands.

Fuck.

He sat there for five still minutes, listening to see if he could escape back through when another cart passed by. But there was nothing. Not for the first time, Fara wondered why he hadn't simply gone back to the trodden paths when he first knew he was lost, and what in Mahal's name this part of the Mountain was. It smelled like a mine, but he knew the mines were on the north and east side of the Mountain. If it was a mine, this was tucked away, with definitely no miners coming in and out.

Fara raised his head above the corner, and then again sat there, peering out and ready to duck at a moment's notice. What would his excuse be? That he was lost? Nobody would buy that now he was down here past the doors. Fuck.

Edging down the path slowly, Fara sniffed the air. Hewn rock, water, something coppery. The air was cooler and less stuffy than in the hallway, and for a moment of relief, Fara thought he could hear water, and thought that perhaps he would come across another way out into the Eastern Straits, or maybe another lake that he could follow back up to Port Nazbukhrin.

But the water passed – it was only a trickle. Yet now, Fara could definitely hear something else. It was that same indistinct sound he'd heard when he was above the path, but it was growing stronger and louder. After some time walking in the half-darkness, his eyes settled at last on a huge set of fortified iron doors at the end of the pathway, and something lurched in his gut. There was something about them – their sheer size, stretching to fill the cavern as he came up underneath it – that didn't feel right.

Fara tried to read some of the words inscribed on the top of them around their edges, but they were so large that he could only properly see up to their middle. From in front of him, the noise started up again, and the dwarf could make out a clinking, dragging sound as if of chains, and something like forty great bellows puffing air at the same time. Fara stood transfixed; there was nowhere to hide if those doors opened and the only thing he could do was to try and put a name to what could lie behind them. It sounded like a chained beast of some sort – it definitely didn't sound like machinery. It sounded alive.

As Fara's eyes became used to the darkness in this part, he saw leading up to the left of the doors some worn steps. It seemed that above the gates there was a guard outpost – but thankfully it looked unmanned. The door to small cabin was shut, but as soon as Fara had registered what it was, his foot was on the bottom step and he was hauling himself upwards. The huffing and breathing sounds were now overwhelming, and the sound of chains dropping and being shaken clawed at his senses with its shrillness. He tried the door to the guard-tower and it was open. Then, with one last look over his shoulder, he crawled inside.

On the other side of the outpost, there was a stone archway that looked directly into the room on the other side of the main doors. Fara covered his nose as an odd smell hit him: it was like fish, and it was damp – like a cellar in Port Nazbukhrin, but an extremely large one.

Peering out of the archway from his crouched position on the floor, Fara looked directly downwards. There was a small ledge and then a stone ramp that led around the outskirts of the room. The room itself was gigantic, but it was no more well lit than the corridor outside, by a few torch brackets positioned high around the domed ceiling. At the far end there was a door ajar, as large as the one that had locked Fara out. At the other side of the room, Fara could make out something shifting. There was a steady pulse of air; at first Fara thought that there was something climbing up the far wall. It had wings, but that was as much as Fara could make out from this far away and the thing – whatever it was – was moving in blackness. It would climb, and then Fara would hear the sound of the chains rise, and then it would drop, and the chains would fall, and there would be a loud exhale of air that fanned Fara's face with an accompanying disgusting smell. Fara had heard of stories of large-cave bats in his youth, or from hunters that rode out on the tops of the mountain looking for trophies. There was nothing else it could be, unless they'd found something new under the deepest caverns of the Orocarni.

The door that was slightly open was jerked fully wide suddenly, and Fara jumped backwards, hidden now behind in the shadow of the window ledge. Another two carts rolled out into the room, and from his vantage point, Fara saw that the load was something he'd only heard in whispers around the tradehalls – something that was almost the stuff of legend. It was the unmistakable smooth, black glow of _galvorn_. The metal lay in sheets uncovered, and had two guards crouched in the back of the cart with it, hands on their axes. On the threshold of the exit, the cart stopped and slowly with a loud groan, the other doors split and opened outwards. Fara hadn't noticed any pulley systems – but he had little time to wonder now, as the guards had hefted up their axes and had stood up in the cart with a loud shout of alarm.

Whatever had been on the wall at the other end of the room was coming closer, crawling along the floor with a drag of chains. It didn't move like a bat. It was an undulating, hulking mass of black, wings stretched out in front of it, and as it got closer to the light, Fara could now see just how big it was. The guards didn't look too concerned, but eyed the door that was slowly opening, placing their shields up to their faces with their visors already flipped down to cover their eyes and beards. The beast hit the light of the ring of torches, and Fara recoiled.

As the dragon hobbled into the middle of the room, the cart driver cracked the reigns with a cry to his ox. The beast turned its head to look a little forlornly out of the door; its eyes where white, and Fara in his trembling state could not see any pupils. He now noticed the bellowing sound was from its huge nostrils as it sniffed the air around it and tossed its head to and fro, with an occasional grunt and chirp. At a sharp 'hey!' from the driver, the two carts pulled away, trailed by a wisp of smoke from the dragon's mouth. At this, the air seemed to crackle, the hair on the Fara's neck standing up on end as a chill set in. It seemed that the dragon's breath turned the air before it to ice; its snow-like consistency fell softly to the ground. As the carts rumbled away up the path, silence set in, and the dragon lowered its head to rest in the middle of the floor. Its wings rustled softly, fretful claws scratching at the slick ice beneath its feet.

Fara slumped down in the dark room. He forced his breath to come slowly – one in and one out – counting in fallakhuzdul. When he felt steady enough, and had heard the scrape of the doors shutting again, he made his way down to the bottom of the stairs. His heartbeat picked up as he adjusted his shirt – it was damp with sweat, and his boots, frayed and worn to holes, were hurting his feet. He would leave. He would leave and find menial work on the dock – maybe as a porter or something, he didn't care. Fara only realised he was walking when he felt his breaths wheeze from his lungs, legs moving automatically and striding upwards. He would forget about it – about dragons and Nazbukhrin and galvorn – it was none of his business.

_Must be worth a fortune._

And for a second, Fara turned back. His calloused hands clenched momentarily in his pockets. His very empty pockets. Absentmindedly, a hand went to run through his locks, which hung down past his shoulders, and at the end of them were copper bands that he fashioned himself, a few simple designs adorning them and his thickly braided and twisted beard. What he wouldn't give to have something richer, at least for a little while.

Then he was walking back, walking towards the door that housed the dragon. Images flashed through his mind as the torchlight seemed to distort the high walls around him – would he be hauled before the court? Banished? Would be be given money to stay quiet? A grin split his face as he imaged the look in the tradesmens' eyes – he was no longer a scrap thief but a treasure hunter.

What can I do? Fara thought to himself, as he stood against the door. Go up and in? He paused: the dragon hadn't seemed like much of a threat to the guardsmen, but to one foreign dwarf... Fara knew better than to test it. A twinge of something like pity knotted itself in the dwarf's stomach as he looked up the length of the stone doors. He couldn't hear the restless clinking of the chains behind them anymore.

Fara didn't have to wonder long, as something struck him from behind – a heavy blow to his head. He turned around as arms grabbed him, pinning him down, a helmeted head crashing into his forehead and making searing pain run up his skull. There were shouts – from somewhere above him, the dragon bellowed. Then he lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

The rest came back to Fara in a rush. He'd been bound and escorted out by seven guards to the deepest dungeons (he was blindfolded, so that part of the tale he just assumed). He'd managed to pick the lock of the jail door in a panic and sneaked out from where he was held. He hadn't really expected to get away... and now, now he was here. That was it. Everything was a daze.

Axil's mouth was hanging open, his pipe balanced between his upper jaw and lower lip.  
“What beast? What beast was it?”

Fara took a deep breath in, catching Umowo's face out of the corner of his eye. The man was looking at him suspiciously, but if he suspected anything he didn't open his mouth.  
“I don't know. Probably something bred over years to protect the jewel-hoards,” he shrugged.

He hadn't mentioned the dragon. Well, not the dragon exactly. He hadn't even told the Captain the specifics, even though something in the dwarf's bright azure eyes had lulled him into confessing most of his story to him over dinner. Every time the 'd' had come out of his mouth, somehow it had changed to a 'b', and then 'beast' had followed instead, accompanied by a strange, dizzying rush up to his face.

The table was silent, the air broken by the Dabir's low whistle.  
“Pity you didn't get away with some,” he laughed, winking at Fara and draining the last of his drink. “Gold, you say it was? Pure shit, huh?”

Fara nodded mutely, keenly aware of the Quartermaster's brow furrowing from beneath his black headwrap. Gold, not galvorn, he'd said. Galvorn he'd put out of his mind entirely. Fara swallowed the lie down. He knew better than to think telling people the truth about the secret metalworks in Nazbukhrin was a good idea. Not right now, at least.

The woman who had introduced herself shortly before shifted in her seat at the other end of the table, shaking out ringlets of copper and tying them back from her brown, freckled face.  
“You'll be wantin' to know about us then, I take it?”

What Fara had slowly learned from the other dwarves on ship (and some of the Men, too) was that all of them seemed to have similar backgrounds. His friend the Stiffbeard dwarf, Axil, had been ostracised, and The Nazbukhrin was the only ship that would take him on. Varhi's story, he'd learned from Axil, was similar to some of the other's: Hafar had gotten him out of a tight spot with money, offering work for service.

“How's the ship so successful if it takes on a bunch of misfits?” Fara sincerely asked him, as they prepared to bed down for the night in their hammocks. Axil, like Varhi, had the ability to give the impression of remaining deadly serious and mildly amused at the same time.

“Training. Soon, you'll fit right in.”


	8. Akhsan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a long time in coming, but hopefully I can pick this up again and actually finish sometime this year!

 

Though it had been almost two years since the day he'd been chased through the streets of Nazbukhrin, broken and bleeding, Fara still recalled when he'd first set foot in Dale.

 

* * *

  


It was their first stop-off after he had come on board The Nazbukhrin, and as the fabled city of Men had drawn closer, the young dwarf felt a stir of excitement and anticipation at having a chance to visit the markets there, to roam new territory and lose himself in new streets.

Dale was huge, larger than Fara had expected it to be; though not as impressive as Nazbukhrin, it was still filled with a mix of people, East meeting North meeting South and West. The stonework was sand-coloured and dwarf-hewn, all wide arches and points and terraces built up like Nazbukhrin's southern portside but ten times grander, and at noon they slowly closed into a well-kept harbour in the shadow of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, where they moored.

Fara's eyes lingered the mountain's black silhouetted outline for a while as the ship creaked into the bay and Dabir sprung out, long-legged, onto the stone wall to tie her up. He'd heard stories of the great treasury of King Thror before, of the vast caverns swamped with heirlooms and riches, and also of a Longbeard king who was spoken of grimly by those in the tradehalls back home. Some said he'd left sanity behind years ago. Others simply said that the Line of Durin was none of their business, and more than one Blacklock dwarf refused to even talk to any traders of Durin's Folk, citing old squabbles that confused and embarrassed Fara. He had never really cared for that sort of discourse. Still, he wondered if Thror really was as mad as the stories said, or if, like a lot of news that reached the Orocarni, things had become a little distorted. He only tore his eyes away when he heard Varhi calling him sharply to assist him.

Fara quickly found out that Captain Jazrul's reputation wasn't just high amongst the dwarves and tradesmen of Guthelabbad: as soon as they stepped off the ship, Hafar was shaking hands with the dockmaster, being waved in the direction of some of the finest carts Fara had ever seen, with handsome fat oxen at their heads.

“Ever driven a cart before?” Umowo asked, laughing as he thrust the reins into Fara's shaking hands. Fara called him something in Khuzdul that made him glad the other Guthelabbadi dwarves were out of earshot. A minute later, and gritting his teeth at every jolt and lurch, Fara found himself clinging on for dear life as the cart rattled down the many roads to the marketplace. Umowo hadn't stopped laughing until they offloaded twenty minutes later. Learning on the job, as he called it.

Back home, Fara's experience of selling had been only bartering to get a small wage: metal jewellery he twisted and crafted himself out of things discarded in the port, curiosities he found in Nazbukhrin (with or without theft), anything that might fetch him some money. The trade guilds were for companies, educated dwarves, or those traders rich enough and with enough custom to join – without that foothold, you were left to make what you could. Fara found that, contrary to his nerves before they landed, the strange faces around him in Dale's main auction square could have been any Haradi or Khandisgi merchant making their way through the mountain, and he watched them keenly. He occasionally caught sight of Hafar conversing with some of the Northern store-owners, with Varhi keeping a close eye on their produce and a closer one on the captain's back.

Fara was told on no uncertain terms that he was to _stay put,_ and to _watch and learn._ It was apparently watching Hafar sell – this trader, an old pasty-hued fat man, was a new buyer interested in saffron purchases; the next one wanted to know how much dyes from Guthelabbad were selling for these days. After an hour or so, Fara had hesitantly taken up pen and paper at Varhi's command and marked down some of the items they'd sold, the quantity and price – a simple task but, as he'd checked and double checked, at the end of the afternoon everything was accounted for, and Fara was gifted his first feeling of pride.

Dinner that evening was served in a local tavern, a welcome change from the confines of the ship that became stifling at times. Though Varhi and the captain sat close to each other, deep in conversation at the other end of the long table, Fara squashed himself in between Axil (who seemed to always have a pipe or some sort of rolling tobacco on him) and Dabir – it was a snug fit, but Fara didn't mind as he struggled, through a rum-clouded mind, to learn a rather complicated game of dice the other two were playing.

“What did you get up to, then? I didn't see you,” Fara asked during a lull in the game, but before he suspected Axil was too drunk to converse with him properly.

“Selling mostly. Hafar can't be in three places at once, so we're his network of buyers and sellers. He's head of the Guild of Orocarni Tradesdwarves, so you've got to keep face as well -” Axil flashed Fara a tipsy wink and lopsided grin – and the other dwarf wondered how well Axil, out of all of them, could do 'respectable businessdwarf'.

It was later than he would have liked to have gone to bed when they all finally staggered back to the ship – Dabir was singing rowdily and swinging around the columns on buildings, being told on more than one occasion to 'quiet!' from a high up window. Fara entertained the idea of staying out to explore the streets – ever a night-hunter, he felt his body waking up around this hour and each movement in the shadows caught his attention. But not this night, he told himself, as he was brought back to the reality of his life now. He was no longer in Nazbukhrin and he definitely wasn't working under his own hours. The day began depending on your shift, and he suspected he had a 4am wake-up tomorrow.

Fara settled back to the drunken snores of the others after his companions had fallen into their hammocks one by one. Cursing his pounding head and too warm and tired to heft his pack out of the hold above him for a sickness potion, he began to do what he'd done for the past few nights. Every evening before sleep overtook him, he mumbled the names of all his fellow shipmates under his breath, their faces swimming up in his mind's eye. It was, after all, the first time he imagined he'd truly had friends.

 

* * *

 

On an evening after they had left Dale, Captain Jazrul had taken the young dwarf into his office once again.

“We're headed for Umbar now,” he announced casually. They'd dropped a load of cargo off at Dale, after heading through the Sea of Rhûn without stopping there to moor. Hafar had explained their journey over breakfast: they were on their way to Nazbukhrin, where they would rest for a couple of days – enough time to load up with supplies before turning down into the Azuladun Canal.

 _Umbar_. Fara had one thousand questions for the captain, but politely held them. What would it look like, really? Anything like the numerous pictures pinned up around Hafar's office, or perhaps different?

“It would be good – if you wanted something to pass the time – for you to practise reading before you got there. Learning,” Hafar said, tapping on an open page in a book before Fara, “is one thing I pride myself on.” The captain seemed to puff up a little bit, his smile growing as he indicated Fara to look at the page: it was a dwarven children's book, and the words were large. Fara flinched at the simplicity of it. Hafar didn't see this – he had got up to open a window as the room was boiling in the midsummer heat. When he sat back down, Fara prepared himself to politely decline, and say that perhaps it would be a waste of the captain's time – he was sure that he didn't want to spend the evening in his hot cabin with a dwarfling's story and a new recruit. Dragging a chair closer to Fara, Hafar pointedly took the book up. He had a stern look on his creased face that reminded Fara of a schoolmaster – or what he thought a schoolmaster might be like.

“I've never – I never had the chance.”

“You don't have to justify yourself to me, Fara'ouz.”

Fara shut his eyes tightly.

“ _Why_? Why are you doing this?” he asked. He remembered – and it seemed to Fara to have been a long time ago, not a matter of weeks – the first time he'd asked Hafar this question. He'd got no answer then, but he still remembered the book he'd been shown, the one with the pictures of the kings. Hafar was quiet, his mouth a thin line as he skimmed the runes on the page.

“Do you know what happens to dwarves in Nazbukhrin who are down on their luck, or who had a hard start in life?”

Fara thought for a second, avoiding the captain's eyes as he leaned across the table on his elbows. A lot of things happened. Some dwarves turned to joining the military and going to far off places to escape. Some turned to drink, and frequently could be seen lounging around in boats in Nazbukhrin. Some died, alcoholic and penniless after a business failed. Then there was theft, sometimes. There were lots of things, but Hafar didn't wait for answer.

“You can play chess, Fara'ouz. I know you can, because I've seen you with Umowo at his game – you beat him a few times. You already had, without my guidance, a keen eye for coin and the value of things – you're a hard worker, whether or not it comes naturally to you. You respect me and your fellows.” Hafar massaged his leg for a moment, a sigh escaping his lips. He stirred some black powder into his drink and grimaced as he took a sip.

“For the pain,” he said, noting Fara's look of concern. “Helps me out when it gets a little much.”

Fara opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut again. He was mollified by Hafar's compliments, and instead focussed on the swirling charcoal-like drink that his captain had made up for himself. It looked entirely unappetising. _What happened to these dwarves?_ The dwarves that everybody forgot about, the dwarves that found themselves workless, worthless, day in and day out drinking glass after glass...

He already knew the answer to that too well.

“Many of my dwarves came to the ship believing they could do nothing; when really, they could do everything. By now, no doubt, you've heard the stories from the others of how they found The Nazbukhrin.”

Fara nodded, remembering his second night onboard ship – the night he'd told everyone how he'd escaped from prison and exile. Hafar took a swing of his medicine again, his eyes dancing merrily and flashing brightest blue.

“You're going to succeed, Fara – the lowly merchant from Nazbukhrin's port. Book?”

The younger dwarf hesitated – the captain – _his_ captain's hands were outstretched, the book balancing between them.

 

* * *

 

 

Fara didn't really recall when it began – when he first started to realise there was something... odd about the Nazbukhrin. His other shipmates didn't really talk about it, but more and more Fara readied his ears at the whisper of the word 'information', and his head flicked up at the hushed conversations that seemed to take place at night, when the others thought him asleep in his cot.

True, this was a trade ship – there was always information to gather about market prices, competitors and what was selling fastest. But Fara knew that his number reports at the end of a trading day, while well recieved, weren't the only source of 'information' that the ship dealt in. Every so often, he would wake up for morning watch, or for his morning cleaning duty, and find out that one of the little wooden dinghies had been let down the side of the boat, and somebody was away – or if they had moored in a city or shore, that somebody wasn't at breakfast. Nobody ever spoke about it. They were always 'away', and Varhi always gave Fara a dark look that he knew by now meant 'eat your Mahal-forsaken porridge and halt the questioning'.

He knew better than to press the matter – he had tried a quiet word with Ismer, thinking that the Stonefoot might be more forthcoming. But she'd turned back to her work, muttering something about the captain being there soon enough, and she should be getting on with her navigation plan for the next leg of their journey. Even Axil, lax as he was with his tongue after a few ales, seemed to wrench himself back into soberness whenever Fara tried to imply that he thought there was something Captain Hafar wasn't telling him.

“Ah well, he's quirky. Strange. Anyone who thinks those scarves are attractive would act a bit weird,” the Stiffbeard would laugh, brushing off Fara's quizzical gaze and offering him a game of 'Blind Dwarf's Poker'.

They had left the small river-town they were in last, and now Fara could see the dark smudge of Ozrahank on the horizon, the city on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn. Looking down from his seat at the crow's nest, he saw Umowo's head peek through the hatch, his white bandana coloured a vivid violet with the dawn sky, and his face aflame with gold.

“Good morning,” Fara yawned, swinging his legs around and making sure he didn't hit the Man in the face as he scrambled to take position.

“And good night to you, little dwarf brother,” the Man winked, and Fara pushed his arm with a roll of his eyes as he made to go down the stairs. He felt his arm caught, and he looked up again.

“Oh – some good news,” the Man said brightly, “we're here for a while. No doubt your feet will be glad to touch soil for more than a few days this time!”

Fara went to his hammock with a grin on his face that day, knowing that soon he wouldn't be woken up with the extra duties he had whilst they were out on the water. Though they had stopped through once or twice, the Sea of Rhûn being the main thoroughfare to get from the West to the Orocarni, he hadn't really had a chance to enjoy its capital – to explore the hills in the great mountainous chain that encircled it, to walk in the dense woods, to trawl the cluster of strange little shops on the shore that served everyone from Dalishmen to Easterling Wainriders. And of course, as Axil excitedly pointed out to him as soon as he'd slept his fill – there was the famed Dorwinion wine.

 

* * *

 

 

“Varhi's been gone for ages.”

Axil, who was carefully tying up a length of sail, glanced down at Fara's remark. After a few seconds of silence, Fara shrugged and went back to cleaning his knife, scrubbing angrily at the rust that refused to come off the handle.

“Captain Hafar said he was away on business,” replied Axil finally. Of course – business.

The warm afternoon breeze whistled past their heads and stirred their beards as the Nazbukhrin made its way up the channel. The sky was cloudless, and as he looked out occasionally over each gunwale, instead of the usual shouts or horn blares from the other boats that sailed alongside them, there was the sound of nothing but the water.

Fara shifted a little to the side as the Axil came to sit down next to him, but he didn't look up from his cleaning.

“I don't really know what for,” Axil continued with a grunt, lowering himself back against the wooden deck to rest lazily with his arms behind his smooth jet black hair.

The young Ironfist checked his pocket-watch that lay on the step beside him – the midday meal would be in the pot soon enough. Tucking his blade back into a belt loop, Fara stretched himself out next to his friend, covering his face with one hand to block the strengthening sun that shone a dazzling silver through the white sails above. The deck of the Nazbukhrin was quiet, and he and Axil were the only two out. Not for long, though, as a few minutes later the great clang of saucepans being bashed together heralded the arrival of lunch. Fara had always measured the day in the amount of time to the next meal – since joining the ship, he'd been heartened to learn that his crewmates did as well.

But a moment later, Fara saw Axil's face drop a little at the smell wafting from below deck. It was something neither of them, from their confused glances, could place.

“If there's one thing I miss about Varhi, it's his cooking.”

Fara had to agree.

 

* * *

 

 

Hafar had been in his study for days, and Fara realised that the change had been gradual. More and more, Umowo had appeared instead of Varhi (who was still away) to keep track of everyone's tasks. When Fara had asked, he shook his head, and said, with a vague wave of his hand or over his shoulder, that Hafar was busy and that Fara would see him at dinner. Fara had offered to take the night watches more and more; from his vantage point, he could see the light in Hafar's office from the crow's nest, and he had marked the time the lamps would be extinguished – in the early hours of the morning. Then the door would creak open, and the captain would emerge, weary and bent, to make his way to his sleeping quarters.

He wasn't at breakfast when they moored at Oszrahank, nor was he aboard for lunch (which was actually quite an appetising curried goat stew). Something twisted in the pit of his stomach – something akin to worry, but he clamped down on it. Hafar Jazrul, despite his cane of Mumak ivory, gave the impression of being one of the strongest dwarves on the ship – his piercing blue eyes stalwart and calm, whether it was after sitting for hours in meetings with other traders or taking up the wheel of the ship during a rough patch of weather – Hafar had always been there, a constant.

It was with relief that, at the turn of the evening and as the blush of twilight painted the hills of Rhûn in a rose-glow, Hafar emerged from his cabin with his hat at a jaunty angle on his head, a knitted shawl slung around his shoulders. At the sight of Fara, he strode over and clapped his hand on the younger Ironfist's shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“What about a drink tonight, eh? I know just the place... I don't think you've been there before.”

Fara kept close to Hafar's arm as they walked in the balmy air, up the muddy shore paths towards a patch of buildings in the distance where lights flickered and the black, formless shapes of many houses stood against the setting sun. Axil marched ahead of them, already playing with the coins in his pocket and his chin jutting out, Ismer beside him and Dabir bringing up the rear, loping slowly and swinging his pack.

“I was worried about you.” Fara felt the admission dragged from him, almost a little unwillingly. He shot the elder a glance, and felt his skin flush hot at the surprised expression on the captain's face. After a while, Hafar relaxed and sighed. Fara felt a steady hand on his forearm, fingers pressing lightly on his tunic.

“Don't worry about an old dwarf like me. I've seen a lot more than you realise. Been through it and come out the other side again. No, I will weather this one as well...”

Hafar's eyes slid only for a few seconds onto Fara's, but there it was again – a churning in the pit of the dwarf's stomach, the exact same feeling he'd had when he'd first been questioned by the captain after joining the ship, bleeding all over the cabin floor. The lurching, heady rush that had swamped his senses when he'd told the truth about his exile, making his lips tingle and his vision blur. Fara remembered the last time this had happened, but it hadn't been his first night on ship – it had been when they had first docked at Umbar.

* * *

 

“It's not wise to stroll around Umbar on your own, especially not when it's getting close to dark.”

After a gruelling load out, during which Fara thought he'd sprained more muscles than he knew he had, he had spent the rest of the his first day in the city off exploring the zeken of Umbar's labyrinthine streets, meandering in a daze upwards, determined to reach the glowing golden buildings that marked the crescent quarter of the Old City. He didn't know if a mere trader on a dwarf boat would be allowed in, but a recklessness drew him closer and closer.

Then Hafar's voice had stopped him dead and he'd whirled around to almost come colliding with his captain again, who had a mischevious smile on his lips. Hafar shaded his eyes from the glare of the low sun off the buildings and his wrinkled brow creased again as he peered up in the direction of the towering stone walls. Then, with a backwards glace at Fara, he quickly motioned for the dwarf to follow him, and the pair set off in quick steps up the main road.

“Come – I want to show you something,” he said quietly.

Fara listened as the bustle of noise below them hummed upwards on the wind. As he looked over his shoulder, he could see the lights coming out, the night-markets starting and the smell of dinner cooking; scintilating lamb, spices, meats in thick sauces. His stomach gave a longing growl and he bit his lip. Hafar laughed lightly.

“We won't stay long – besides, the guards aren't amenable to those who aren't scholars staying in the Library in the evening.”

“The Library?” Fara wondered aloud, fixing his eyes on the iron gates that they were nearing. Behind them was a smooth, white-stoned building, with tall guards standing by in the recesses of its doorway. Nobody moved in the courtyard of the High Buildings and Fara felt a knot of apprehesion at the grim expression on the guards' faces as they neared.

“The seat of Lore in all of Umbar, and beyond,” Hafar sighed, the echo of his heels and cane bouncing loudly all around them.

“As I told you, I spent many days in here...”

Fara recalled their conversations before now, but even so, _he_ felt out of place in such a City – it was too open, too un-dwarvish for him to feel completely comfortable, and he didn't like the look the Men at the doors were giving him.

The guard nearest them was a tall, light-skinned man, and his curly hair flowed down his shoulders akin to Varhi's, though his face (if it was at all reasonable to say) was even grimmer than the dour Blacklock's. However, as Hafar swept his hat off and spoke a word of greeting to him in a language Fara did not recognise, there was a moment's pause, and then the door to the Library was heaved open silently. Fara shot him a questioning look, but the other dwarf quickly motioned for him in iglishmek to be silent. Together, they passed through the crack in the doors, and then with an almighty bang behind them, they were left alone in a dimly lit stone room.

Fara stopped for a moment.

“Are there no scholars?” He asked, feeling a little stupid as he did so. Hafar wrenched the collar of his coat around him closer; it was chill in here from the high, wide windows, and a breeze made the naked candles flutter and drip wax onto the stone floor. Apart from them and the fading daylight, the room was empty, silent, cold. He could see the marble staircases he'd been told about flanking them on either side, leading up into a high terrace that he could see was lined with books beyond count. At the far end of the room, across from many benches, chairs, and dark corners, stood another door, and above them were the over-hanging stone bannisters of the upper floors.

“Sometimes – there are less nowadays,” Hafar said, his voice almost a whisper. He said nothing else, nor made any other move until Fara took his arm gently. The elder dwarf seemed to snap out of his reverie and smiled sadly – leaning a little into the younger dwarf's touch.

“If you want to, we can go – we can just sit somewhere and eat...” Fara began, but Hafar shook his head, a steely gaze eminating from his eyes.

“No. It was difficult enough to get in here for a start – I thought they weren't going to let us in for a second...”

Before Fara could speak, Hafar had whipped past him and was walking silently up the left staircase. Fara followed him, making sure to keep an eye on the dwarf as he grunted a little, knees creaking as he hoisted himself up with the aid of the bannister. Despite this, Fara watched his tongue, as he knew by now that no help would be accepted if it wasn't asked for first.

They stopped at the first level and Fara could see, in the glow of more candles, the mighty row of shelves that stood before them, reaching up to a vaulted cieling that was tiled with glittering and spiralling mosaic. He wondered at this for a while until he felt the blood rush from his head and his neck crick from looking up -

“Dwarf made, you know – by the Blacklocks,” Hafar whispered, pointing a long finger upwards to trace the patterns. Fara's eyebrows rose in his face, and he quickly closed his lips, aware he was gaping. Hafar chuckled beside him.

“Yes. Yes, there were dwarves here before me, you know – dwarven scholars and artists of Guthelabbad. Here, there are more works I would show you.”

Hafar wandered the corridor, and Fara followed closely, his eyes trying to make out the words on the shelves in the half-light – here were some texts of Law from countries whose names he could hardly pronounce in his head – and there were some art books depicting bead-fashion of all the civilisations in Harad and beyond. Haltingly, he reached out a hand for a tome with a teal spine, but he stopped himself, fearing to touch at the last second and break something priceless.

“How are your letters coming along?” Came Hafar's voice from far away. Fara peered up from the shelf and saw that the dwarf sat in a low stone alcove, a bundle of papers cradled in his lap by the light of a window. He was bathed in blue, and as he looked downwards to the collection, his gaze was misted and dream-like.

“My letters...” Fara felt a little jump of optimism in his voice as he walked over to join his captain on the ledge, peering down into his lap. “I've been reading each night – like you advised,” he continued, noting the twitch of a smile in Hafar's face.

He hadn't picked up the children's book immediately. It had lain under his pillow until boredom had got the better of him one night, when he was too tired to sit and talk to his shipmates and something to do escaped him. He had looked at it hesitantly, fear bubbling in his throat as he opened the cover to try and read.

Slowly, he realised that he could. It had been a long time since he'd read anything long, and certainly not a whole book – but words became sentences, and sentences became blocks of runes that he could understand. There were many words he could not, and at a lot of times he had to guess the context to make sense of anything. But it was five in the morning when he was awakened by Varhi's heavy footsteps at the bottom of the stairs to the sleeping quarters, and he realised with a jolt that he had passed out with the book on his breast. He hurriedly stowed it away, and though he was tired, he went over the simple story again and again in his mind that day. It was actualy quite good, he thought to himself, even if it was for dwarflings!

That evening, he had taken the book back to Hafar, tentatively, but had felt a warmth wash over him at the look on his face when he announced that he had finished it. Waving away the stammers that Fara had not understood some of it, Hafar gestured for the young Ironfist to sit at the table and open it again, drawing out a pen and ink as well.

“I started you with something easy so you knew you could do it yourself. Now, our lessons begin.”

And so they had. Fara wondered if this was what other dwarrows were taught like; he'd never been to any sort of master to learn his letters, and had his numbers and basic penmanship from watching and learning in the tradehalls and what he could remember in his father's workshop when he was only small. He didn't think so: he'd heard the young dwarves in some of the residential quarters talking about their teachers and loremasters, and had bristled with jealousy until he realised that they were complaining – long hours, hard work and lectures in the history of Guthelabbad that had sounded boring to tears. But Hafar was different. Kind, patient, and with a wildness in his eyes as he helped Fara to eventually read some longer legends he had dug out of his collection, which seemed to be stashed away in over fifty trunks that were positioned precariously around his cabin...

“I know you've improved; Varhi has been most impressed with the quality of your writing of late. It is accurate and neat.”

Fara jerked his head up as though Hafar had thrown a glass of wine in his face -

“Varhi said that?” he spluttered, grinning despite himself. “I can hardly believe it,” he added, shaking his head and trying to peer over Hafar's arm to read the title of the piece. He started as he realised it was written in fallakhuzdul, the dialect of Guthelabbad, and was one of their most ancient tales he'd only heard spoken.

“You know, Varhi thinks more highly of you than you know. Though he will never be known for as much merriment and mirth as your friend Axil can conjure up, he recognises your talents. Ah, this-” he said, flattening out the scroll on his lap and holding the lamp closer to it, “ _this_ is what I wanted to show you.”

Fara read slowly, the letters ancient, curling around on themselves and sometimes breaking on the faded, dry parchment. The paper was so thin that he feared Hafar's dwarvish hands would snap it in two, but the captain held it steady and out for him to see. After a few lines, Fara shook his head in frustration. “This Khuzdul seems old-” he said, and he was getting the runes mixed up in the dim light.

Hafar smiled again and nodded. “It is precisely two thousand and thirty-seven years old, actually. Oh yes,” he said, as a small, astonished sound left Fara's lips, “our dialect of Khuzdul has changed during that time, and some of these words are archaic, and the lettering also. But I can read this – though I think you know the story.”

And so Fara did. Every dwarf in the Orocarni did. It was the story of The Creation.

It told of the naming of the Orocarni. How the Dwarves of the West called it 'Barazabbad', the Red Mountains, but how its original name, Guthelabbad, meant something different: 'guthel' – 'first'. The awakening place. The Beginning.

_Durin, the King, was born once an Age, so was said in the Longbeards’ stories. The Sigin-tarag believed that it was only their House that had the greatest legends, and so the stories of Durin were held up in high regard across the Houses of the Dwarves, while other lores were often disregarded – remaining unlearned and unsung outside the Orocarni. That, every dwarf in Guthelabbad knew._

_In the Beginning, the very first beginning, before the Longbeards, before the first incarnation of Durin creaked open their eyes, were the Four Mothers lain by Mahal the Creator. One in the north, the icy barren waste, one in the middle in the grasslands, two in the south – by the shores of the swirling Eastern Sea. As they slept, mountains grew around them and sprung from their bodies as they awaited the Awakening of the Dwarves. Their zha – the great breath of life – created each rock, each gleaming vein of precious ore, and the Mothers sang endlessly in their dreams, their songs raising earth, forming pinnacles of mighty stone, carving and crushing the Halls of the Orocarni into being. Mahal, from his deep place, loved their songs and creations above all else, and was so inspired with pride and awe at the Mothers’ work, that he split himself into four – four parts to protect and watch over the Four Houses of the Orocarni forever until the dimming of the World._

Hafar's lilting, soft voice read on, pulsing in the quiet, close air of the Library as Fara listened, and then faltered at the next block of runes.

“This part is of the story not told by mouth, and is only present in the most ancient writings. I wonder if you've heard it before,” he said, his voice only rising above the barest of whispers. An odd sensation prickled at him, and Fara glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting there to be someone watching them both. But there was nobody, and he realised that the shadows had deepened as they had read.

Hafar breathed in deeply, and began again, and Fara noticed his hands shook a little.

“The Dwarves of the East believe that, at all times, the four parts of Mahal's spirit wander in the form of living Dwarves – keeping watch, with a power unknown to themselves until a time of great need arises, a time which not even the greatest of spirit-workers of Guthelabbad can predict. Each Clan is granted their own Spirit, a Dwarf whose power embodies one of the Four Attributes of Mahal, that he gifted into the Dwarves' very souls: Fire and Strength for the Stonefoots; Knowledge and Wisdom for the Ironfists; the way of Magic for the Blacklocks; and the workings of Stone and Craft for the Stiffbeards.”

Hafar's voice trailed off, and he looked down blankly at the parchment in his hands.

“It's just a legend,” Fara breathed, the musky, rich scent of the parchment filling his nose. Hafar looked at him curiously, his dark eyes flicking towards his face, then away again.

“All legends have to come from somewhere, don't you think?”

“I... I don't understand what you're trying to tell me, captain.” Fara's stomach growled again, and he shook the buzz and questions from his head. He certainly had not heard the last part of the old creation tale... _that_ was not how the tradition told it. Hafar's face softened, and he stretched his back out with a click and a groan.

“Apologies - I thought you'd find it interesting. The old addition to the text is something I found only recently. But you're right to be wary of it: Dwarves that hold magical power are few and far between.”

Hafar's blue eyes closed briefly in the dimness and he inhaled deeply, steadily.

“Sometimes, we don't know our own strengths.”

 

* * *

 

The Figleaf was a merry tavern on the harbour at Oszrahank, frequented by local and trader and traveller alike.

As the crew of the Nazbukhrin entered, Fara forgot the odd feeling that had came over him and pushed Hafar's cryptic words to one side in favour of the smile that now plastered itself across his face.

“Funa!” Hafar cried, as a young Stiffbeard stretched out her arms at the threshold and embraced him in a warm hug. A dishcloth was slung over her shoulder and she was clad in a lilac so bright the colour wouldn't have gone amiss on one of Hafar's scarves. She smiled broadly at them as she led them inside, clapping Hafar's arm and linking it in hers as they made their way to the bar.

Dabir bent down low to Fara and muttered in his ear; he couldn't hear a thing over the chatter of the bar, which was packed to bursting and so hot it had already made sweat run down the back of his neck.

“That's Funa, she's behind the bar here – Vila, an Ironfist dwarf, runs this joint,” he said, looking around him with a smile and a deep breath. “Ah,” he breathed, “home.” He grinned and elbowed his way to the bar, his lanky form slipping between bodies as easily as a fish through the rocks. Fara noticed that some of his fellows were already seated at a long table in the corner, which looked as if it had been hastily cleared. The remnants of candles were stubbed on the tabletop and burning low, a cloud of smoke rising from the flurry of pipes that had been taken out and lit. Axil was in his customary position, leaning backwards and chatting to a tall woman who was ladling out something that, even from Fara's distance, smelled strongly of liquor. Fara squashed himself into a small seat, ducking as a beaded lamp swayed precariously above his head from a low chain on the ceiling.

Though the Figleaf looked small from the outside, it seemed to have widened considerably now he was in it, and it seemed like a hundred people were jammed in here – gaming dice, smoking, and some were playing a rather lethal looking game of darts. It reminded Fara of the bustle of a dwarven tavern back home.

_Home._

Dabir had said it about this place, and Fara wondered. Dabir's country lay many miles away from here – further even than Nazbukhrin was. However, the Khandisgi man was now lowering himself opposite Fara with a happy groan, thanking Funa profusely as she dumped a healthily sized bowl of chicken and rice in front of him.

“There you go, Dabs. Eat up before you waste away. I know you must be tired of ship-food,” she said, with a wry smile up at Fara. Dabir shrugged at this, too set on shovelling heaps of it into his mouth, but Fara caught her eye.

He felt himself blush a little and tried not to make too much of a study of her face – which he noticed, offhandedly of course, was very pretty and round. The material bound in the braids of her beard were made in the customary forked style of her House and hung down to her chest, and her bronze skinned, smooth face was framed by a shock of bouncing curled black hair.

“You're new,” she pointed out, as she took a seat on the edge of the table after pouring herself a short drink from the central jug. At once, Fara felt eyes on him, watching him intently as they sipped from their glasses. Jiade, a short man from the Banyuk people, the Easterlings that moved on the nearby rolling plains, gave him a wink, and pushed a glass at him across the table. It knocked against a plank of wood and almost spilled before Axil's deft fingers caught it with a curse.

“Jia's already pissed – he's been on the water since his dawn watch,” Axil said, and Fara shot him a grateful look. The attention turned back to Funa as she laughed – and Fara took note of the dreamy look that had passed over Axil's face. Another plate of food was set down, this time in front of him, and Fara followed the long arm up to meet Umowo's face, lined and exhausted from working overtime in Varhi's place.

“Eat. You know something? You Guthelabbadi dwarves can't half cook a good meal,” he conceded, looking over to where Funa was making her way back to the bar – it seemed more and more people were slowly filing in, some lingering and watching the crew at the table. Fara tried some, wincing as the meat almost burned a hole in the roof of his mouth (how Dabir had inhaled it, he had no idea). It was good – it was -

“This is an Ironfist dish,” he said thickly, once the heat had cooled enough for him to talk.

“Well, of course it is!”

A brash voice called out from somewhere above his head, to cries of delight from the rest of the table. Fara craned his neck around behind him as a pair of large bosoms near took out his eye. The dwarf placed their thick arms around Axil's neck, placing an irreverent kiss on the blue cloth of his headscarf.

“I thought I'd barred this trouble-maker from my establishment,” the dwarrowdam said, taking Funa's place at the table, and producing, from Mahal knew where, seven tankards of an almost black ale, one of which they set in front of Fara.

“We could always tie him up like a dog outside. But we'd have to bring him ale,” muttered a Blacklock next to Dabir – Nimrukh – and their usually proud and stern face cracked as they grinned into the froth of their mug. Axil gasped in a feigned affrontedness, placing a hand gently on his breast.

Vila's eyes settled on Fara, and he bowed his head in greeting. The short shot of liquor and the mouth-numbingly hot rice had made his head feel a little less addled.

“Good to see another one on board. Mahal knows you need some Ironfist sense in amongst a gaggle of Stiffbeards and Stonefoots,” Vila said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“And Blacklocks. Varhi's still here, but he's away on business,” Nimrukh interjected.

Vila sniffed, unclasping the cloak that fell around her shoulders and balling it up.

“Always on business,” Vila tutted. “And Funa was so looking forward to seeing him... it's been months since he was last around.”

Fara saw, from the corner of his eye, Axil's lips tighten and his smile fade.

“He'll be back,” Nimrukh said softly. “He's coming this way and stopping off here-” Dabir nudged him in the ribs, his head giving a sharp jerk in Fara's direction. The Blacklock dwarf, whose deepset eyes narrowed in the patches of white that stood out against his dusky skin, sat back and clenched his teeth.

“ _Birashagimi,_ ” they finished abruptly.

Vila eyed them darkly, then her eyes softened as they settled on Fara again, who was once again frowning at being left in the dark.

“I've always thought that a gathering of Blacklocks is less of a 'gaggle', rather an 'annoyance',” she said, pulling herself off the table and hiking her stained apron up around her middle, her breasts nearly overflowing from the top of her robe. Nimrukh scowled, much to Axil's pleasure, and Vila bustled away with an inclination of her head at Fara – and a farewell gesture of _'welcome'_.

From somewhere, Funa's voice came lilting and ethereally beautiful, singing a high-pitched, jolly song. It was then that Fara realised Hafar was missing.

 

* * *

 

 

Hafar sat, stiff backed on the chair by the fireplace, as the figure slowly removed their hood.

As customary, his eyes dropped down, and as far as he could from the seat on his chair, he bowed forwards to his knees.

“Akhsan,” he muttered.

The other dwarf stood motionless for a few seconds, their eyes fixed on the shuttered window. Hafar jerked his head around and followed the dwarf's glassy-eyed gaze.

“Nobody knows we're here except for Vila, Akhsan. There is a spell of protection-”

“And spells can be broken.” Akhsan's voice was harsh; their calm face broke into a grimace as they sat down heavily opposite The Nazbukhrin's captain, the scars that lined their cheeks and eyes tightening momentarily. Hafar leaned back, delicately reaching for the pot of tea that lay between them both. There was a bottle of strong Dorwinion there for Akhsan; Hafar himself did not drink – he found it gave him indigestion and a throat like sandpaper come morning.

“I'm getting too old for this, Jazrul,” came Akhsan's voice, softer, more tired than Hafar had heard in a long time. A touch of resentment was there also. Akhsan opened their steel eyes and quirked a brow at Hafar's scarf – an orange that loudly clashed with the muted purple coat he wore. Akhsan shook his head. His deputy hadn't changed his Mahal-forsaken fashion sense since they'd first met.

“A full time Wainrider now, then?” Hafar asked, noting the dwarf's dress: leather riding trousers, tall boots, and a fixed hood to keep dust and sand out. There were also fresh cuts, he noticed; Akhsan's right hand was bandaged, and the dwarf held it gingerly.

“Of course. It gives me a place to hide, should I need it. And an alibi.”

Hafar nodded stiffly, savouring the clean aroma of the leaves in the hot water. He knew well how Akhsan conducted meetings: the dwarf was always slow to get to the crux of why Hafar had been summoned, despite planning it for months and travelling through half of Rhûn to get to him. It was they who had picked Ozsrahank to meet at: a central, neutral point between Khand and Nazbukhrin. With the area heavily populated by Easterlings, Akhsan, with their Wainrider dress bearing the insignia of Upper Khand, wouldn't stand out that much.

“I do not know how much longer I can be involved in leading the Lai n'Abar resistance. I'm getting older, and my priorities, if they come to it, are on a military front. I know that my guidance is sought after in the Iron Hills.”

Hafar's brow creased as he tried to make sense of the words that had tumbled from his leader's lips: he had expected another twenty minutes at least of Akhsan not telling him anything at all – as was usual.

“And you will go to the Iron Hills?”

“Eventually.”

There was a clock in the corner, and its incessant ticking irked Hafar as the silence deepened after Akhsan's outburst. The dwarf had uncorked the wine and tipped some into a small glass – they pulled a face at its taste, but looked contented nevertheless at the warmth of it.

“I didn't come here to drink cheap wine and make chatter about my life, Captain Jazrul. But perhaps... perhaps I'm delaying the inevitable bad news.”

Hafar snorted as he noted the tone of sympathy in his leader's low voice. _Sorry for the inconvenience_ , it ironically said to him.

“Of course. You never want to drink cheap wine and talk about all the good times we've had together,” Hafar said bluntly. He almost tutted as he noted the grey in the dwarf's beard which had once been the deepest sable, almost shining blue, and how untamed his hair looked – like it hadn't seen oil in a month.

“The Dark Lord's hideout in Rhûn was destroyed in the springtime, as you know. The Lai n'Abar's contacts, the Wizards, eradicated every last trace of evil from it and banished the dark spirit within. It fled.”

But there was more, and Hafar took another steadying drink of tea before it came – the real news. The real news was always softened somewhat. Akhsan hoisted their slender, wiry frame out of the chair, unsteady on their feet and looking almost bent in two as they sat on the arm of it with their hands on their dusty trousers. It was a few moments before they spoke again, and their voice was low and grave.

“It begins again in Harad, Jazrul. There's no rest to this... this menace. And I am afraid.”

Hafar rested his cup down with a small clink of porcelain. His hands shook and he spent a second steadying them as his mind whirred over his next, careful, choice of words.

“So the zigûren are active then? His followers have started amassing once more?” the Ironfist captain whispered. His knuckles were white against his small plate of biscuits, one lying half chewed between his fingers.

“So say reports from Umbar. Envoys of the Dark have been spotted there, trying to test the will of the people in the City and spread discord again. Reports that also state that my efforts... our efforts to squash the Dark Beast into inexistence were futile. He is there again. Somewhere – giving orders, or at least overseeing them. Biding his time.” Akhsan was almost spitting, lip trembling as they stared hard into the fire.

Hafar watched his old friend's face sadly. _So close_. Hafar had thought – hoped – that this wouldn't have been the outcome, after all the planning and scoping out the Resistance had done of the Dark Lord's hidout in the destered mountains far to the East, below the most southern range of Guthelabbad. He deflated, suddenly not hungry, nor thirsty, and just very, very fatigued.

“Are you prepared to fight for this, Jazrul?” Akhsan sounded frail, their tone barely a whisper above the cracking and popping of the fresh wood in the fire. There was no wind outside, and all was silent but for their breathing.

“Akhsan -” Hafar started, imploringly looking up at his friend, “I have a crew to look after – plus a new recruit...”

“You knew this would be the case when you and The Nazbukhrin joined the Lai n'Abar,” Akhsan said, face cold and emotionless. “Giving up is not an option.”

An imperceptible nod was the only confirmation the leader of the Lai n'Abar got as they rose to their feet quickly, fixing their cloak over their face once more.

“I await Varhi's latest report when he gets back from Umbar – at least I know I'm getting good sources from somewhere. Oh, and use another raven; I fear my messengers are being watched.”

 

* * *

 

Something caught Fara's attention from across the bay, at a row of shops that stood at the water's edge. A dwarf was shutting up the shutters on one of them, his back turned. An overhead lamp rested from a height and shone light on the front porch of the shop, illuminating his features as he moved – to Fara's fuzzy gaze, it looked almost like the fluid movements of a dance.

It might have just been the copious amounts of wine that he'd had that evening – he couldn't even remember wandering out here with Axil and sitting down – but Fara found his gaze lingering... first at the dwarf's slim shoulders, then down his back... his tunic was very tight indeed... then down as he bent over...

Axil gave Fara a sharp nudge in the ribs, and the Ironfist's head spun around – maybe a bit too quickly, because then the world tilted and he found himself fumbling around behind him for support.

“Go and say hello then,” Axil teased. He lapsed into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, and Fara shook his head – the Stiffbeard's eyes were almost closed he was so inebriated, and his teeth were bared in a leering smile. “Ah – ah. Too late, khule – looks like they got away.”

Axil patted Fara's arm – the pat missed and he instead patted the ground beside Fara's bottom – as they turned their heads back to the shop front. The dwarf and the light was gone, and the shop stood in darkness.

 

* * *

 

When Hafar returned to the floor of the Figleaf, it was a way into the night. He glanced over at the table where Vila was sitting with his crew (all of them looked very far gone, and Vila was in the middle of singing a very explicit song in Khuzdul to the merriment of the dwarves around her).

Stepping outside, he allowed the air to cool his face, the chill pleasant and welcome after spending the evening with Akhsan in the room above the inn. If he squinted, he could see the harbour from here past the row of houses and stores that sprawled down the dockside. Not for the first time in the recent months, a wave of tiredness hit him in the chest, and he closed his eyes wearily. He glanced for a moment back through the door of the tavern, conflicted – but deciding he had to be of some use come morning, Captain Hafar called it an early night and made his way back down towards the Nazbukhrin and a warm bed.

 


	9. News from the South

The raven, despite its ghostly white feathers, was almost invisible against the inky clouds in the sky above Umbar. Its inquisitive head cocked slightly at the change in the breeze rolling in from the sea, and it peered around to a large, empty mooring spot in Umbar's port. It was secluded enough under an overhang of rock and the next vessel was barely visible it was so far away. There were no people, either, this far down the stretch of dark concourse. It would do.

The raven crowed once. It ruffled its feathers and then chattered in annoyance. It crowed again.

The Family Name flickered into view, once, twice. The water underneath the ship remained still, a ripple only breaking the surface as it was agitated by the wind. After the outline of the ship remained for a few seconds, wobbling in the air, the shape stabilised fully – the carven figure on the prow was solid black metal once again, a wooden gangplank lowered down the carrack's smooth sides.

“Come.”

Though the Dwarf muttered the command to himself, the raven flew up onto the ship to settle on his shoulder and rest there contentedly. It looked down at its master's face, something like pity in its beady stare.

“Oh, don't give me that. I know the invisibility shield’s broken.” 

The bird croaked and flew off into the sky, fluttering amongst the tall buildings on the other side of the harbour concourse. The captain groaned to himself, running a calloused hand over his face and beard.

“With respect, sir, I think you should stay on the ship,” came a voice from over his shoulder, and the captain looked blearily up. He sighed, straightening his jacket and clambering stiffly over to the gangplank.

“Sometimes I forget I’m a Dwarf, Zeor. I need to set feet to stone again,” he replied, and his lips quirked in a smile as he looked up past the harbour and at the walls of Umbar city, glowing against the quiet of the desert behind it.

He started up along the concourse, his raven away to not attract attention to his arrival. A cough from behind him made him turn, and he found the crewmate who had spoken looking pointedly at him. The ship was visible. For Olou's sweet sake.

With a grunt, his boot hit the ground, and he whispered something harsh. Then, The Family Name once more, after a few feeble attempts, melted away.

 

Captain Balar of The Family Name hesitated for a moment outside the Red Cap. He peered through its murky windows with a slight fondness – he'd used to drink here. He'd used to drink a lot. He grimaced as he tried to push out some of the more unsavoury memories from his time as a young Corsair, but he still contemplated going in once again, for old time's sake. This rare trip to Umbar was, after all, meant to be a break – as well as providing ample time to sniff around and see what was what. He felt a twinge of sadness tug at him as he studied the crowd in the tavern – a mix of people: Corsairs, Umbari, those from all over Harad and Khand. He hardly ever saw ‘northerners’, as he called them, roaming the southern waters as he did.

Decisively, Balar pushed open the door to the pub, startled at the warmth that hit him like a furnace. Looking over his shoulder, and satisfied that nobody had come up the path behind him, he turned and shut the door, one finger loosening his top button against the heat. It was absolutely packed. One part of the Dwarf's more sensible side told him he might have been better walking up to the City, blending in with the crowds and finding somewhere anonymous to take in some news – even now, he could see a few familiar faces, and not the sort of ‘familiar’ he liked. Still, he pressed through, grunting his apologies until he saw, amongst the tangle of bodies and legs, a small table in the corner of the room hidden behind the end of the bar and lit by a flickering, broken gaslamp above it. He grimaced, but it would do if he could stand the annoyance.

After waiting an obscenely long time for a pint of weak ale, he strode towards the table, which had mercifully been left unoccupied.

“Oh. Sorry.” He stopped and his drink sloshed suddenly as he realised that a Man had been folded up in the corner, his long legs out on the seat in front of him. In the deep recess of the wall, he hadn't noticed the slender figure, who regarded him lazily from under his hood.

“You can sit, if you like,” said the Man, gesturing to the seat in front of him, from which his skinny legs slid down. Balar raised an eyebrow, and then awkwardly slipped himself into the empty chair, which gave a profound wobble. Steadying himself for a moment, Balar chewed on the inside of his cheek and used the reflection in an empty metal tankard at his side to study the Man a little. There were a few things he processed quickly: one, as he scanned the Man's face for markings, he gathered that he was from Bozisha-Dar, probably Ellakan; two, he looked out of place here – he wasn't a shipworker, nor was he a merchant; three, he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His ears pricked up when the Man spoke and his voice, now clearer, seemed grated and raw with exhaustion.

“Sango. I arrived here with the rest from Bozisha – you?”

Balar studied the Man for a moment longer in the glass, then looked up to meet his eyes. Something wasn't right. He felt it now radiating from the Man's skin and he detected little skips of emotion from his mind, which lay open to Balar – worry, pain, confusion.

“What happened?” he asked, trying now very hard to resist the temptation of diving into Sango's mind and finding out for himself – it would only take a second, but he realised that the mind in question was hazy, placid and buzzing with the warm cushion of alcohol. It wasn't _ proper _ to take a mind that lay so unnaturally open. Sango looked at Balar as though he'd grown three heads.

“What do you mean – what _ happened _ ?” he said incredulously, a spark of anger crackling in his eyes as he drew himself up. The force of the emotion struck Balar in the chest hard. Yes, there it was – pain. Terrible pain. But there was another level he sensed, reaching out to the Man with one aspect of his unconscious mind, trying to sense without being detected. He had it now: loss. Balar arranged his face into something he thought was ignorant enough.

“Forgive me, Sango. I don't venture northwards often; my territory is far to the south of Harad and on the Eastern Strait. Last time I was in Umbar was many years ago. I've come… back.” A lie would serve no purpose, but he was still wary about speaking openly with so many people nearby, and as Sango's face twisted, the feeling of uneasiness grew in Balar's breast. 

“Ah.” The Man sighed and closed his eyes. This worried Balar – he thought any more than a blink and the poor bugger would fall asleep where he sat. “That would explain it.” Sango drew his cloak around his head tighter, looking straight out past Balar and into the room.

“Go back home, Dwarf. Go back south, or wherever you hail from,” Sango spat, taking a glass of dark liquid and drinking the whole thing down in one go. “Leave these cursed parts to suffer their fate. There's nothing anyone can do anyway.”

Balar's eyes narrowed in suspicion and he leaned forwards, resting his chin in his hands. Fire grew in his breast as he took in Sango's crooked sneer, his eyes slowly closing as the drink hit him again.

“Well,” he growled, “Let’s hear some news, good or bad. You might as well give me a tale.”

Balar listened, hands clenched tightly around his ale that stood forgotten, eyes fixed on the table top. He sometimes felt like snapping at the Man to slow down, because his head was whirring and pounding so fast as he spoke the names of those great cities that had fallen and been ransacked, the citizens fleeing in terror or standing to fight, dying in droves – Mardruak, Felaya, now Nilul was struggling and rent and Bozisha-Dar was decimated. He tore at his lip, trying to quell the utter rage that threatened to break his throat in a scream.

He hadn't noticed that Sango had finished and was staring glumly into his own drink.

“Something tells me Umbar will be next,” he said sarcastically. Balar huffed.

“No doubt they have ships and men enough to bring low half of the South,” he muttered, and for the first time since he'd sat with Sango, he took a long gulp of his ale, trying to repress what he knew Gondor was capable of.  

“Whatever happens – we'll... we'll fight 'em. Give the bastards something to remember. Go down fighting...” Sango slurred, raising his glass for a toast with Balar, who hesitantly lifted up his heavy pewter mug.

“To the death. May Umbar be strong,” Sango claimed proudly, heaving himself up on his feet, and then faltering as he looked down at the dwarven captain. “What'd you say your name was again?”

“Captain Balar. Or just Balar is fine-” no sooner had he said his first name, than Sango had dropped the full glass of drink he was holding and sat back down in a rush of air. Balar cursed, righting the drink up before it did too much damage, with a quizzical look at his companion, who once again was looking wildly at the Dwarf.

“ _ Olou below _ – I've been asking about you for a week now,” he said, and Balar was surprised that a grin formed on his face.

“ _ No _ idea how to find you – some people told me you were a trader in the far South, others that you provided protection for pirate ships and dealt in black market goods-”

“Well, I-”

“Some even said they saw you far up as _ Dale _ – they said to look for a short, bald Dwarf from the Ironfist House, and I said 'there's a few of them around, you'll have to be more specific – this is _ Umbar _ we're talking about'”

“Why were you-”

“So they said if you were here, which Jarmil said you'd be, then you'd go to The Red Cap.”

“Wait – Jarmil?” Balar exclaimed, holding up a hand quickly to silence the Man. Sango nodded, his smirk growing wider.

“Jarmil told me to seek you when Bozisha was attacked.” Sango said, rummaging in his pocket for something with his tongue stuck out to one side as he pulled it free. It was a very crumpled-looking piece of parchment, and Sango opened it out, then pushed it across the table. Balar regarded it for a moment, but there was another, more pressing question.

“Jarmil... is he... he didn't come with you?” Sango's face fell and contorted again, making Balar's teeth clench. He decided, for the sake of his own sanity, not to press the matter. He couldn't even fathom that his old friend might be one of the masses of the dead.

“I'm sorry,” Sango blurted out. Balar waved his sympathy away, and pulled the note closer to him. Rather than a lengthy letter, Balar was surprised that the missive contained only a few words.

_ The Orocarni is next. _

Balar read those three words over and over again, until Sango's cough made his head jerk up. The Man looked sheepish.

“I... I assume Jarmil didn't want to give me anything longer, in case we were attacked on the way here and I was searched.” Balar flinched, but remained silent, exhaling slowly and shutting his eyes briefly.

“Is it something to do with the attacks on Harad? Can you help?”

Balar opened one eye, looking at Sango. Now, the Dwarf felt almost as exhausted as Sango did. Like he'd been dragged from his ship, through the mud, and then thrown into the inn and pummelled a thousand times. But Sango, the exile, was looking at him so expectantly that he could have laughed in spite of himself. However, he chose his next words carefully.

“It's possible from this,” he said smoothly, “that Jarmil knows something about the future of the attacks. I fear if he's correct, then our dear admiral Arnadil's mind isn't only turned to the wealth of Harad. And to answer your second question... I can try.” Unfortunately, this answer only brought forth a babble of questions from Sango, who was now leaning so far over the small table that Balar could smell the liquor on his breath, and he was highly afraid that Sango's cloak tassel would catch on fire from the table candle.

“Who _ are _ you, then? You cannot be just a trader or smuggler – do you have ships?” Sango trailed off at the icy look Balar gave him – it was evident their meeting was over. Balar ran a hand over his face again, then plucked the letter up and folded it and slipped it into his breast pocket. He debated if it was safe enough to send the raven to his old friend in the South. It wasn't, but thinking about it made it seem like there was a sliver of hope that Jarmil was still alive.

As he stood up to leave – for somewhere where he could think without the cacophony of a hundred sailors in his ear – Sango grabbed his hand. The Bozishan Man's mind was still lax and unguarded, and out of nowhere, a clear voice spoke in his ear as though Sango had bent down and whispered it to him:

_ Don't turn around. _

From where the Man grabbed his hand, he could feel his pulse hammering quickly.

“What is it?” he hissed. 

_ We're being watched _ , Sango mouthed, his eyes darting over the Dwarf's shoulder.

Balar slowly turned his head despite his better judgement, then snapped it back. He didn't know how long the Man had been watching them intently from across The Red Cap, but it made both Balar and Sango freeze on the spot. Something curled inside the pit of Balar's stomach which said to him, very clearly, that this was no ordinary reveller on a night off from work.  

Sango's grey eyes studied the Dwarf's face, steely and calculating, before Balar straightened up, and gave the Man a curt nod as if to say farewell. He then closed his eyes, before turning on his heel and striding purposefully towards the door of the inn. _ Forget my face, _ he thought, and he hoped Sango would hear him.

 

Outside The Red Cap, with the door firmly shut, Balar sat down on an empty packing crate and inhaled a great lungful of sea air. He took one look at Umbar in the distance and made his decision. Despite having no real idea how he would get into the the High Buildings in the dead of night, he would either try or find an out-of-the-way place where he could contemplate what he might tell Chancellor Haidi. Walking quickly and chancing a few furtive looks over his shoulder to ensure that he was not being followed, Balar weaved his way through the refugee tents that had sprang up around Umbar's walls, keeping his eyes on the gates that stood open in the distance.

Balar's concentration was suddenly broken by a movement behind him. Quicker than thought, he almost sliced off the hand that grabbed his arm from a blindside with the flick of a knife hidden up his sleeve. The yelp that the culprit gave, however, wasn't from the height that a Man would be at, and he stared down at the face of a fellow Ironfist Dwarf, who had jumped out of the way at just the right moment.

“Thanks, Balar,” intoned the dwarrowdam. Balar bared his teeth and sheathed his knife away, eyes averting away from her face and around them into the crowds of people – he could see nobody tracking him yet.

“And you would have deserved that, had I cut it off,” he growled, jerking his head in the direction of Umbar's gates in an invitation for Lumkha to follow him in. The other Dwarf had to jog lightly to keep up with his pace as Balar strode into through the city entrance, glad to be as far away from The Red Cap as he could. There was enough of a throng here in the main streets around the gate to keep him anonymous for now, and his nose twitched at the thought of getting something to eat – perhaps he could wait until tomorrow to seek counsel.

“Keeping an eye out for me, were you?” he asked the Dwarf following him, as he looked idly around some of the stands. Balar was quietly impressed that Umbar still had food left in it at all after seeing the amounts of people outside, but it was just the same one level up – people camped in alleyways under flimsy sheets to keep out the heat, or sitting in corners by houses and buildings on reed mats. He turned away.

“No. I was going to The Red Cap, and then you appeared,” Lumkha said with a roll of her eyes. She evidently caught sight of Balar's expression at the displaced: “Yes,” she said, “and it grows every day.”  

Balar suddenly wasn't hungry.

“I've only just got word of what's happening,” he confessed, “so if you've come for news, then I can't help you.” Lumkha's face dropped and she breathed out harshly through her nose.

“Welcome to the North,” she grumbled through gritted teeth, eyeing a trader a few stands up from them who was advertising the last of his fish curry.

Balar made his way over and Lumkha trailed him, and he saw her prod her pocket surreptitiously.

“I'll get it,” he said, smiling awkwardly at the stall holder and asking for two meals in broken  _ Umbarim _ – Lumkha grinned when they turned away, clutching pieces of bread to shovel up the steaming mixture.

“Finally something I'm better than you at – your Umbarim is terrible,” she said, and then focussed her attention on eating where she stood. Balar ignored this, going over to a shady porch in the front of a copper shop and taking a seat with a grunt outside a stack of pots.

_ The Orocarni is next. _

The letter burned a hole in his pocket and Balar took it out to read it again, his brow furrowed, until he noticed Lumkha had sat beside him and was attempting to read over his shoulder. He promptly stowed it away.

_ Why the Orocarni? _

“What's that?”

Balar's reply of “none of your business” was premeditated, as he turned from Lumkha and studied his meal. The mounds of white fish were mountains, the rivulets of sauce the rivers that lead down, down to the Sea of Rhûn -

_ If there was any breach or threat to the Orocarni, it was clear what would come next - _

“You need to do _ something  _ about all of this.”

Balar snapped his head up in annoyance.

“Oh yes, and what? What could I do? I have one trading carrack – precisely one.” He turned back to his food, remembering exactly why he regarded Lumkha as an acquaintance from the days where he, too, was operating as a Corsair sailor in the eastern Sea off of Khand – and not a friend. Lumkha turned to face him, her face bright and eyes flashing in anger, food forgotten.

“You know I don't believe a word of that!” she growled. For a moment, Balar was afraid that she had somehow found out – but there was no possible way...

“I know you're in Gondor's pocket,” she spat. Balar raised an eyebrow. “Didn't Beregond give you ships that you have stashed away somewhere?”

Oh, of course, that point of contention. He scowled at her and chewed over his next words.

“Aside from the fact that nobody can 'stash' greatships with great ease, I no longer have that close a relationship with the Gondorian elite as I used to. I don't deny it was... useful having free passage in Gondor's waterways and those in power to protect my back.” Lumkha spat at his feet, but Balar ignored her and leant back with his eyes shut, trying to pick up the thread of thought he had been on. _ Jarmil... what had Jarmil really meant? _

It was knowledge to anyone with a map that the waterways of the Orocarni and Rhûn were linked. Two fat geese that had lain so far protected by long journey to get to them. How convenient would a flurry of attacks and raids on Harad be to direct attention away from the East?

Balar got to his feet, determined that if the guards outside of the High Buildings did not let him in, he would climb into the chancellor's window. He left Lumkha to fume behind him, smiling slightly at her curse of ' _ rat' _ that followed him up to the next level.

 

The third level of Umbar was almost deserted. It was a labyrinth of backstreets that were mostly residential and it seemed eerily quiet, muffled by the stonework a world away from the level below. The lamplights on the corner illuminated the washing that hung out to dry in between the buildings – and Balar could see few house lights on as he made his way climbing upwards, keeping the spires of the High Buildings in his vision. Now and again he passed somebody, either going home or going back down to the lower levels, but as he tried to remember the quick route through the alleyways, he had the sneaking suspicion that he was getting well and truly mixed up – he hadn't frequented Umbar City for quite some time now. Balar had just turned a corner into a wide square, which was bordered on all sides by the front steps of affluent looking mansions, when at once he was plunged into utter darkness.

Balar kept still, feeling his chest constrict as he tried to minimise his breathing; every sound seemed magnified in the stillness of the open air. His ears pricked at the hubbub coming from the streets below him, but his senses extended to every corner of the enclosure, listening for any sign of movement. How could he have been so naïve as to think the zigûren wouldn't follow him? Backing away from a fountain that trickled noisily in the centre, Balar pressed himself back into a nearby wall, one hand stroking the cold metal of a small sword sheathed to his side.

“It has been a long time, Balar.”

Balar flinched as the lamplights were turned on suddenly. A tall Man was standing a few feet away by the fountain, smiling at him through his dark red shroud, which fell below his eyes.

“May the Zigûr have strength,” Balar said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as the Man neared him. The hand that was outstretched on a walking stick looked wizened, but Balar didn't assume that he would be able to take him down.

“Ah, so you remember us?” said the old Man.

“Of course,” said Balar, who didn't try to hide his irritation. “And I fear, naturally, that everyone remembers me.” From the corner of his eye, he could see that there were others, too, blocking the exits of the square on all sides, shadowy figures, but Balar didn't know whether it might be a conjuring of the Man before him or more followers of the zigûren.  

“You've been away from for a long time, Balar, but we still remember your power... as it was in the old days when you sailed the Eastern Straits as Corsair captain of The Grey Watcher,” continued the Man, who was edging ever closer.

“Aye, well those days are long gone – I am simply a sailor who prefers the peaceful waters of southern Harad now.” Balar pressed himself back further, taking comfort from the good stone propping him up. Whatever the zigûren wanted would be hard to wrangle out of, but he was grimly pleased that he at least commanded some respect amongst them. In a moment, the Man was on him and the shadowy figures had closed in from the sides to stand guard only a few feet away. Whenever the Dwarf tried to look at them he felt his eyes water and sting, so the only thing he could do was look straight ahead into their leader’s shaded face, his body trying to recoil. 

“We are looking for someone and you can help us – we have received word that he is here,” the Man hissed. His yellow teeth were bared in a twisted sneer and an oddly blackened tongue flicked over his lips – Balar was initially mesmerised by this, but managed to bring his eyes up to where he assumed there were a reciprocal pair under the hood.

“I landed in Umbar only an hour ago, so I'm not much help,” Balar gasped, feeling his eyes burning intensely. To the left of him, one of the figures was bearing down, making Balar’s face twitch uncontrollably – and though he tried not to show it, Balar felt he was either going to faint or vomit right there...

 

“Balar!” 

From somewhere far off, a clear voice called his name. It didn't sound like it was coming from anywhere near the compound he was in, maybe several streets away. Balar's knees buckled and he sank to the floor, at the same time trying to steady himself on his legs (though they both now had the stability of custard). A rough hand grabbed his shoulder – Balar reached for his sword at his side and ended up falling flat on his face, then he tried to roll over, but his feet got caught on his cloak. He couldn't help laughing aloud – what an _ idiot _ he must look to the zigûren.

“Balar, get up-”

The Dwarf was a little confused at the tone of the voice – it wasn't the Man who had, just a few seconds before, been pressing in on him – the grating, frail whisper. It was clearer, like a bell, and it was a woman's voice. Balar was hoisted to his feet and pulled towards a rushing sound. His eyes were still smarting and he was disorientated, his fingers still attempting to grasp the handle of his sword fruitlessly – though as he tried to regain control of his mind, he sensed the person holding him was no enemy.

“What were you doing on the ground?”

Water was poured into his streaming eyes and Balar realised that he was now sitting on the ledge of the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, being held by a strong arm. As the water cleared from his vision, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Haidi,” he groaned, wanting to embrace her, but his arms shook precariously. The Chancellor of Umbar sighed and raised her eyebrows at him. Balar could feel the water trickling down his neck, his jerkin soaked through. 

“Thanks,” he added, “I thought I was going to run into some trouble with that lot.”

The Chancellor's face crumpled in confusion. She looked back at the wall where she'd dragged Balar from, and the captain took a moment to look around to the edges of the square – nothing. No sign anyone had been there.

“Balar, when I found you... there was nobody here – you were just on the floor,” Haidi said slowly, following Balar's gaze to the alleyway entrances. Balar's mouth opened and closed like a fish, before he looked back to the wall that the hooded Man had pressed him up against – it was blank except for a few stray tendrils of ivy, a worn step at its base.

“They were there...” he muttered to himself. Haidi frowned in concern, but Balar was more upset that they, whoever they were, had managed to pull the wool over his eyes with this enchantment – if they were never there at all.

“The zigûren are back in the City,” said Haidi, taking Balar's hand in hers. Balar sighed, lowering his head and attempting to close his mind to the outside world. He dimly registered that the lights had  come back on and the sounds from the lower levels were not as muffled.

“I know what's happened,” he said quickly. “But it's not the end of it. Even now, Gondor's forces turn to Rhûn, the East, and my... my homeland of the Orocarni...” 

Balar looked up at Haidi – his tiredness stole over him and he didn't think he could explain himself further without mixing up his words and forgetting himself. He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of an annoying fly. “I have received word.”

Haidi looked down at the folds of her dress as the gentle desert breeze toyed with her hair.

“How do you know this?” she said quietly. 

Balar was going to explain about the letter – they both knew Jarmil, a trusted government contact for Umbar in Bozisha, but that wasn't what came out of Balar's mouth next.

“You need to mobilise the other states, the Outer States, before they are overrun and are turned into footholds of the Zigûr's power,” he said, swaying as he sat on the edge of the ledge to the fountain. “The Orocarni – my homeland – we need to fight -”

He felt his hand gripped tighter. His old friend's face swam in and out of his line of sight, pained and contorted.

“We've tried – but it might be far too late, Balar,” she said quietly. She dipped her hand into the water again and tipped it over the Dwarf's brow.

“It was powerful magic that they put you under back there – the zigûren have been roaming the streets ever since the attacks started.” Balar breathed in the scent of the water on his skin and hair – fresh, damp – and sighed as the coolness calmed his pounding head.   

“Ever it was the way – they take advantage where they can,” he said bitterly.

“It's different this time. They have a purpose. They search for something.”

Balar raised his head, his eyes no longer stinging and his mind seeming clearer now. The zigûren – the old Man, or the figment or spell that might have created it – had been about to ask him for something, he remembered that now.

“What have you heard?” he asked Haidi. For a while, the Chancellor was silent, as if weighing up whether to tell him or not, but after a while she unclasped the captain's hands and looked pensively into the rushing water of the fountain.

“I do not know whether you believe in such rumours, but they are looking for the captain of The Family Name.”

Balar, cursing, was down the three levels before Haidi had a chance to stop him. He didn't even look around. In a blind panic, he crossed the first level plaza and was out of the gates, running past the refugee camps and onto the promenade that began the harbour. Past The Red Cap, not daring to look, past the fishing boats, the Corsair ships, until he was down to the far end of the mooring bay.

His raven was already waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umbarim - for the purposes of the fic, this is a creole of the (Black) Adunaic spoken in previous ages, changed through the centuries and mixed with indigenous Haradri languages spoken around Umbar. One of the prevalent languages spoken around Umbar and in the city. More information can be found here: http://askmiddlearth.tumblr.com/post/75172520473/the-language-of-umbar


	10. Arnadil's Offer

 

The shop at the edge of the water opposite the Figleaf, from the outside, was exactly what was expected of a grocery shop. It was a small building - the repairs to the roof that were done before last winter were very visible and patchy, and the door needed new hinges. Nevertheless, it had served in Port Rhûn well ever since the owner, an elderly Blacklock dwarrowdam, had travelled there from the Red Hills.

It was morning, and the cartloads of produce from outer Oszrahank were rolling down from the farms that spread themselves over the steep sides of the lush hills – boxes of plump tomatoes lay precariously in amongst sacks of multi-coloured grains and bundles upon bundles of dark green leaves. Meanwhile in the bay, fishing boats and trawlers loaded up for a day's work as fresh catches were lifted onto pack animals bound for the markets and shops that sprawled up to Oszrahank's centre, from where a hazy fog was rising.

Khalei stood at the door to the back of the shop, a pipe clenched between their lips. They had just seen the first of the deliveries inside and had left Rukhasa, the shop assistant, to sort through them. Now, they leaned on the door frame, squinting up at the watery sunlight. Last night, Khalei hadn't gone to bed until the early morning, their feet aching to the point of tears when they had finally lain down for a scant few hours. After a long, painful stretch, they fumbled with cold-numbed fingers for their box of matches, until a voice at their shoulder made them jump.  

“I have a customer soon.” 

The tone was apologetic, but Khalei's shoulders stiffened in anger and he turned to face the other person – a shorter, ginger haired dwarf, who stood shirtless next to the well of the stairs that led to their sleeping quarters above the shop.

“Sorry,” he added, shrugging. Khalei plucked the pipe from his lips, watching the dwarf follow his movements.

“Bjar – you know you can't do this inside of shop hours,” they sighed. They were too tired to fight their lover on this one, and slumped against the doorframe once more, contented to ignore him. Bjar huffed and Khalei could feel his eyes boring into the back of his neck.

“We need the extra money,” Bjar said coolly. The fair-skinned dwarf briefly laid a hand on Khalei's shoulder, before disappearing up the stairs – their rooms nowadays doubled as a back-street apothecary, and the lack of privacy was beginning to grate. Khalei sighed and glanced up at Bjar's vanishing foot as he rounded the corner. Of course they needed the money.

Khalei checked the clock on the wall – it was time for his mother's medication, and to dress and wash her. They knocked out their pipe against the wall and swung the door shut.

* * *

 

Khalei couldn't be in two places at once, but they kept one wary eye on the door to the shop for Bjar's customer. There weren't many customers in today, and throughout morning to eleven o'clock, the business was steady. If Rukhasa thought Khalei looked tenser than usual, she didn't say anything – but Khalei noticed her stealing concerned glances at them throughout the day.

At eleven-thirty, Bjar's customer arrived.

Khalei's narrowed eyes took in his appearance as he looked, curiously, around the shop. Perhaps he hadn't expected his point of call to be a vegetable store. A large, deep blue cloak and hood covered most of his body, but his brown boots were visible, as was the pommel of a long, grey-hilted sword.

Gondorian make, Khalei noted. And the man, as he neared and Khalei got a look at his face, wasn't from around here. His skin was the tan of the Southern shores of Gondor, and he was tall, with thick brown hair that lay in curls over the front of his brow. He nodded curtly.

“Good morning. I was wondering where I might find a dwarf named Bjar-” he looked again around the shop, “but it seems that I've come to the wrong establishment.”

Khalei smirked, flipping the end of their red kh'busi over their shoulder.

“Bjar is my husband,” he ignored the slight twitch in the man's cheek as he said this, “and his establishment is upstairs. He doesn't usually do this in shop hours.”

He noticed, over the Man's shoulder, some hazy figures through the mirk of the display windows, standing still. Khalei motioned for the Man to follow, a scowl on their lips – they didn’t want to tell him to send his guards away, if guards they were, and hoped the Bjar would not be long. They both passed through the shop to the back. To one side stood the steps to a cellar leading downwards into the cool darkness, a sign in Ghomali minding Khalei and Rukhasa to watch their heads. To the other was a door that lead to the back street and the stair to the floor above.

Khalei heard the Man breathing heavily as he climbed the stairs behind him – three lots of them. They wondered who he was, why he'd come – they often wondered about the stories of the people who visited Bjar, but Bjar would never tell them the good details. They wondered if the Man was regretting his visit here already, if he would even make it up inside the room. Khalei unlocked the door with a heavy key from their jacket pocket and pushed it open, holding it for the Man. Though it was a dwarven living quarter, it had been built for a Mannish family and was comfortable for the Gondorian to walk in. Khalei shut the door behind them both and took a lungful of the sweet incense that was burning from the telling-room, which was open, an orange light coming from behind the curtains that covered the entrance.

The Man turned to Khalei: “Should I remove my shoes?” he asked haltingly. At least he had remembered his manners, Khalei thought, but they shook their head.

“He's through there.” Khalei often wondered whether to wish these people good luck at this point, as they stared apprehensively down the corridor. _ Luck _ . It was a strange word. Khalei had been a grocer working in their mother's store since they were old enough to count coins properly and strong enough to help lift the fruit boxes, and they knew little in the ways of spirit craft before they had met Bjar one evening in the Figleaf. They now knew that ‘luck’ meant something gained, something that could change what was already written for a person. ‘Luck’ was either bought through the manipulations of a magic-doer or simply unexpected. But no amount of wishing could change what Khalei knew Bjar was going to impart to the Man once he got through the door – a hint of the future. Whether or not it could be changed was impossible to say. The weaving of the Divine seemed to confuse even Bjar himself.

* * *

 

“Yes?”

Bjar heard him enter through the doorway and the Man's footsteps echoing up to the entrance of his chamber. He had almost laughed at the timid  _ hello _ which came from the other side of the curtain – that certainly hadn't been the Man who had propositioned him in Dale a week ago.

Bjar didn't look up from the table as the Man sat down across from him. He couldn't see much underneath this blasted hood, but it helped focus his attention. Reaching out with one finger, he traced the sigil carved into the large, flat stone tablet that separated them. The runes and intersecting lines flickered for a second, a blue glow appearing and disappearing briefly – the Man seemed mesmerised.

“What can I do for you, Arnadil?”

He saw the Man's hands clutch the white tablecloth, then the words they all said:

“You said you can tell me my future.”

Bjar smiled, removing from a bag the bone carved runes he had prepared. From his pocket, he drew out a dice. The fug of smoke lay heavy in the air – sweet and tangy, but so overwhelming that Bjar found his vision bending as soon as he touched the runes and felt their power.

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” The Man's voice was stronger now, defensive.

“Then let's begin,” Bjar said smoothly. He waited, silent for a moment – then selected the runes and turned them over, moving them and following the shape of the stone sigil.

“Is this dwarf magic?” Arnadil asked in a hoarse voice. Bjar laughed – the ignorance of Men still astounded him, but less since he moved Eastwards.

“There are Seven dwarf Houses, and amongst them there can often be variation in what is done. What I do is a combination of West and East – things I have learned from my studies here and from my homeland of Ered Luin. It's what I find works best for my readings,” he explained casually.

“Ered Luin? Far from home...”

The runic pattern before them became hazier as Bjar's eyelids started to close. His mind slowed to a sluggish pace as he tripped over understanding Arnadil's words, a response failing to materialise. His hand moved unconsciously as it drifted to touch Arnadil's; the man flinched, but Bjar's touch was steady and gentle as it guided his fingers to hover over the runes.  

“Choose four,” Bjar commanded. Arnadil obliged, and Bjar let go of his hand, gathering up the chosen bone pieces and scattering the rest out of the pattern. Now, with the force dissipated, Bjar could see clearly, though his speech was still a little slurred.

_ The letter H _

_ The sign of partnership _

_ The king's sign, upturned _

The last rune was blank

Bjar knew what the other person was thinking – it was always the same. _ Now what? _ He closed his eyes, holding up a hand to motion for silence; he had heard an intake of breath. After a few heartbeats, which echoed in his ears, he began to speak. Colours, sounds, voices came to him like water cascading over a cliff face, a tumble of emotions and scenarios – all of these, he understood, were possibilities. For the Maker weaves many threads and there are many paths... the trick to this was, as he had learned, finding the right thread – the one that stopped and became clearer and clearer like watching a performance down at the inn or out in the Square.

It stopped, leaving Bjar breathless. He couldn't see anything properly – that was a given, but he felt and understood.

“I sense the light of Oszrahank's harbourside – a ship is there. One ship.”

_ The runes – H, partnership. _

“The runes are read in pairs. The first two are a couple as is the last. This is where you will meet the person – H.”

“That could be anyone,” muttered Arnadil tersely, and Bjar grinned.

“The name can form any time it likes. I am only telling you what is coming as I sense it.” Bjar took another breath in; he could smell Oszrahank – it was the first air he took in the morning as he stood outside the shop, definitely the shoreline of the Sea he knew and loved.

“A bargain will be struck,” he continued. There wasn't money in the bargain, but a promise – and he told Arnadil so. The Man had shifted closer in his intrigue.

“I cannot tell you what sort of things will be said, only that this will be useful for you -” ah, _ there _ was a strange thing.

“The second and third runes are linked.” That wasn't common. “This plan – I know you're planning something; I can feel it, it invades your mind and occupies every thought – this rune is linked to that.” Now that was an interesting rune to have. A king upturned. _ Conquest _ .

“You are going to conquer someone, or something, and this person will help you.” Now the Man was leaning over the table and Bjar pushed him back so the folds of his cloak didn't drape over the central stone.

“The last one?” the Man breathed. The blank rune – the rune that vexed. Bjar smiled at the sensation of his head clearing and the end of the vision becoming apparent.

“A blank rune means I cannot tell you whether this partnership, this conquest, will be successful. Nor its outcome. Or anything about it. The will of the Divine has not imparted this on me.”

The Man swore under his breath and Bjar shrugged.

“So I have to stay here until I meet somebody beginning with a letter H who will help me with- with - ” His hands were white knuckled on the table in front of him, and he was speaking through gritted teeth. Bjar had gathered up the four runes that were haphazardly spaced before him, when he felt a pull – just a little tug – that made him look longer at the H rune. He held up a finger again and peered at it, the carven and burned lines twisting and changing before him. The next letter, then the next, and the next revealed itself...

After the name had completed, the rune went dormant, and Bjar gathered it up and placed it gently back in the bag with the rest of them.

“That was the name – the thing you just saw?” Arnadil asked eagerly. Now, Bjar took up the dice and cast it out onto the table. It rolled a few times, then flipped once and again. Six plus one.

“The one you seek is a dwarf. His name is Hafar Jazrul, and his ship is the Nazbukhrin. You will meet him in seven days.” Bjar reached up to remove his heavy hood and blinked at the light as it fell away from his face. Leaning over to the shelves behind him, he stubbed the rest of the incense out and emptied the tray into the bin.

“Session's over,” he prompted after not hearing the customary stacking of coins on the table, but Arnadil wasn't moving. He was staring at the Bjar with an unconcealed hunger in his eyes.

“What can you tell me about this dwarf?” Bjar looked over; the Man was fingering a pouch of coins.

* * *

 

There was a visitor when Hafar got back to the ship, disrupting his hope of a peaceful night after his meeting with Akhsan in the tavern.

He had eyed the Man lingering about the ship warily ever since he had got within sighting distance of the ship – there was something uneasy about the way he was standing around the ramp that led up to the deck, as though he were waiting for an appointment. Hafar neared and the Man still stood, not facing him but looking up to the structure on top of the deck that was Hafar's main office.

“Can I help you?” asked Hafar briskly. For good measure, he kept his other hand on the scabbard at his side. The Man turned around, his face breaking into what Hafar assumed was his idea of 'pleasant' – it seemed a little forced.

“Good evening – am I right in assuming you're Captain Hafar Jazrul?”

The Man had a mellow voice, and from what Hafar could make out in the dark, he seemed tall for a young age. Hafar stepped onto the gangplank and turned to get a better look, bringing himself up to his height.

“I am. Are you waiting for me?” he added, surprised at the Man's laugh.

“We must have missed each other!” the Man exclaimed, stepping forward and stretching out a hand to the dwarf lord. Hafar frowned in confusion but took it anyway and shook it as the Man continued, “the letter Beregond sent to you said you would be here today, but I got into port late and thought that I had missed you.”

Alarmed, Hafar thought back to his study desk, trying to remember what messages had arrived for him recently. There was nothing other than the communications with Akhsan – definitely nothing from Gondor for a long time. Though, he thought in resignation, there was every possibility something had been stashed away and forgotten.

“My apologies – if Steward Beregond sent me anything it has been lost. Either through my fault or there's a bird flapping around somewhere,” said Hafar. The Man's face drooped in embarrassment and he sighed.

“Ah – unfortunate. My lord Beregond had asked me to meet you here – I was sent on a mission of business.” The Man stressed the word  _ business _ as though it might entice Hafar at eleven o'clock at night and Hafar looked at him curiously.

“Your name?”

“Arnadil of Gondor – I am a Captain in Gondor's navy. Perhaps, being a Captain yourself, you have heard of me?” Hafar studied the Man's face as searching black eyes met his for a long moment. _ Arnadil _ – he had heard of him, albeit only in passing; these days, Hafar didn't trade regularly with Gondor.

“Aye. I haven't heard much, though,” said Hafar truthfully. He thought Arnadil looked pleased for a second, but then his face was obscured with a low bow that made the hood of his cloak flop over his head.

“Well met, Captain. But if it's too late then I can come back another time,” the young Man said anxiously, but the way he hovered nervously at the front of the gangplank made Hafar think that it was better to get this over and done with – for both their sakes. Then, perhaps, he could sleep in peace. 

* * *

“So,” Captain Jazrul began, easing himself into his chair opposite the Man, “what have you come to tell me? Please – keep it brief, it's quite late,” he added, quickly checking the hour. He felt better now that they were both in the warmth, the small burner blazing and the candles lit fully. He had removed his heavy jacket and motioned for Arnadil to do the same.

The Man nodded and fumbled with the fastenings on his cape. The wool slipped off his head to reveal untidy hair and deep bags under his eyes that spoke of long travel.

“Steward Beregond has a proposition to make to you. He would have Gondor strike an alliance with you.”

Hafar, who had been reclining back in the armchair, turned and opened one eye at the remark.

“An alliance? I did not know the Steward thought of me so highly,” he said sharply. He felt the insistent tug he always did when something wasn't right, reverberating deep in his chest. Tentatively, he let his mind slip open a little, trying to sense what it was the Man knew, but he found his pathway blocked by an iron gate; Arnadil's mind was heavily closed against penetration. Interesting. The Man inclined his head slightly, a sombre expression crossing his face.

“And the Steward regrets that he has not kept in touch – Gondor's fleet has been busy recently,” he replied. Hafar smirked to himself, sitting up a little straighter in his chair and turning to face the Admiral.

“I will believe that when I hear of the terms of this 'alliance' you speak of. What do you want? And don't cover it in pretty words.” Hafar was quickly losing patience. The dwarf removed his hat, putting it delicately beside him on the desk and smoothing his braids down, before unhinging the drawer on his desk and taking out a sheaf of paper, an inkpot and a silver pen.

“We understand that in Northern Harad, emissaries of Sauron are once again being seen. Our rangers in the area bring us news that there are cities there shutting their doors to the outside world, and black riders travelling across the lands,” Arnadil began in a low voice. Hafar's blue eyes flicked to his window and then to the locked door of his office.

“Yes,” he said in a whisper, “I know of that.” He fiddled with the end of his pen, the tip pressing into his finger. Arnadil drew out a folded letter from a pocket on the inside of his cloak and opened it, laying it on Hafar's blank parchment. The wax seal of Beregond was emblazoned with the House of Stewards at the bottom of the terms. Hafar groaned internally and fished inside his desk for his reading glasses, but Arnadil took the paper back with a wave of his hand.

“Steward Beregond is looking to expand trade with the Orocarni. In these dark days, we wish to unite with those in Rhûn who do not oppose us, and we have had a relationship with the Dwarves of the Four Houses before. Trade agreements,” he finished, “in return for our protection against this growing evil.”

Hafar looked at the paper in Arnadil's hands with wide eyes, a finger resting on his throbbing temple.

“I...” he shook his head, trying to read the blurry letters that were half obscured by Arnadil's hand. “I didn't think Gondor had given much thought to protection of those in the East,” he said darkly, his eyes narrowing and a bitter taste growing on his tongue. The Man opposite visibly flinched. Steepling his fingers, Hafar laid his forehead against them and shut his eyes. The heat of the room above the Figleaf, the heat of the furnace burning in his office, and the combination of this and his leader's report had created one thing, and that wasn't clarity: it was a headache. The threat of Sauron loomed in his mind and had for several weeks, taking on shapes in his nightmares and making Hafar work hard into the night to avoid them.

“The power that could amass has not escaped our eyes. We would unite with the forces in the East to wipe out any trace of those who support him – you only have to give us your support,” came the Admiral's soft words. They trickled into Hafar's ear like honey, warm, inviting – a little too inviting, and once more, the tug of suspicion pulled Hafar's senses together.

“Why me?” Hafar asked shrewdly, peering over his fingertips.

“You are the largest trader in Eastern waters known to Beregond,” said Arnadil with a shrug, “and with the growing hostility across the land, Gondor could no doubt do with safe trade passage across water.” Hafar inhaled sharply, his cold blue eyes narrowing dangerously, fingers gripping the steel rim of his glasses as he tugged the contract towards him.

“ _ Your help for trade agreements _ ,” he muttered, skimming over the terms – the very substantial terms, “I thought aid in times of crisis was given, not bought.” He rolled up the paper and placed it in his drawer.

Arnadil stood up slowly, then he bowed again to Hafar and collected his cloak from the back of his chair. “I'll inform the Steward you are not interested, then,” he said calmly, and swung the cloth about his shoulders. Hafar rolled his eyes, rising as well and leaning on the edge of the table for support.

“I didn't say that,” he said grimly, with no small amount of regret. He couldn't shake the unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach, but the look on Akhsan's face at the mention of the Zigûr was hard to forget. He surveyed the Man wearily, feeling every single minute of his 200 years in one go. “I have to write to the Queen of Nazbukhrin. I need some time.”

“It would be wise,” Arnadil offered lightly, dipping his head as Hafar made his way across the room and opened the door. “I will return in a month for your decision.”

Hafar nodded and made a noise of agreement. He didn't stop watching the Man as he crossed the upper deck and down to the street below, and only then did he close the door to his compartment and lean his back against it with a deep sigh. If anything, the blast of cold air had made his headache worse, and he was sure he couldn't stay up to pour over the contract – whatever promises of _ help _ it might give. _ What help had Gondor ever given those in Rhûn before? _ he thought snidely.

“If there's ever a time I needed you here, Varhi, it's now,” Hafar murmured.

* * *

The sails of The Family Name, though not of any cloth, were magically designed to flutter in the wind. It had been an addition of Balar's, and he had always liked the realistic touch. Now though, he glared angrily up at them as they flickered in and out of view, stuttering and then disappearing. His raven squawked angrily, glaring as much as a bird could do.

“Ikira,” he moaned, running a hand over his telescope. The raven squawked again – as if to say 'you're on the opposite side of Harad to the witch now'.

Gritting his teeth, Balar stalked to the aftcastle, fixing the telescope to his eye for the fourth time in ten minutes.

“Captain, we've passed the coast of Lebennin and make for port.” Balar didn't even look over at the helmsman, trying to see past the darkness and into whatever spells might cloak a zigûren ship on their tail.  

“How far is Linhir?” he asked, banging angrily on the side of the ship. Their invisibility cloak gave a wobble, then the ship sputtered into full view.

“Twenty miles North-East,” came the helmsman's anxious reply. He, too, was looking around him, his face grey and tired. “We should go back to the Hidden Isle, make for Ikira-”

“I know what I must _ do _ ,” Balar snarled. “But I can't double back with half of Sauron's lackeys on my tail. We make for port, then I can decide.” Balar's raven gave the Man a cautious look, before flying to rest on the bowsprit, its feathers ruffled in agitation.

Linhir was Lebennin's second largest city, and served as the port on the rivers Gilrain and Serni. Its grey walls shielded it from the eyes of the hills that it nestled in and a large stone bridge led to the harbour, which now only traded with Gondor's other sea-side cities. Despite a road leading to Harad, Balar vaguely knew that he could hope for some anonymity there, knowing the city's streets from his previous visits. Getting in with a wood-and-steel ship, however, he hadn't bargained for.

The toll gate stood a mile away, and the crew had gathered on the deck.

“We can't go in,” scoffed one of them – an elf with bright red hair that Balar thought could be seen from a mile away on a clear day. She was shushed by another, who arched his eyebrow and looked at the Captain.

“I don't have a plan,” Captain Balar groused, thundering down the steps to join them on the deck. The ship continued to drift, fading and reappearing. “We need to park somewhere secluded and then walk.”

The elves tutted; Balar pretended to ignore them. The bo'sun was giving orders to moor nearby and disembark, but the words floated over Balar's head like he was in a dream. He felt the raven settle on his shoulder again and he scratched her absent-mindedly. Within a few minutes, The Family Name dropped anchor in a cramped bay a half mile uphill from the toll gate. It seemed, from Balar's seasoned eyes, to have been at one point a pirate's stash, though whether it was abandoned now he couldn't say. It didn't matter if one or two people caught a sight. They were easy to deal with.

Balar checked that he hadn't left his sabre in his quarters, before striding down the gangplank to the soft earth below.

* * *

The Iron Arms was situated just inside the toll gate and was a stop for merchant, pirate, and Gondorian sailor (plenty of these) alike. It was small and dark like the many taverns of Men in the West. It reminded Balar, whenever he stepped inside, of an inn in Bree he had stopped over at in his travels to the Blue Mountains.

He chose the darkest corner, which wasn't easy to find – were they rationing the candles in this town? - and sank deep into his thoughts. He had ordered the rest of his crew to spread out in case they caused any suspicion: some stayed on the ship, some had given up and sank into the sea themselves, transforming themselves into whatever animal they thought appropriate for the time being, though Balar knew the water was dark, deep and cold around these parts. The Captain almost wanted to join them. He leaned his bald head back against the brick wall, judging if it was wise enough to drink his sorrows away for one night.

The mention of the ship from outside his mind brought him back to a very horrible reality.

It was two Men in a corner, and he could see one of the Mens’ lips moving quickly, but not fast enough that Balar couldn't lipread it with the help of the whispered words and a little bit of concentration.

His ship had been spotted – moored.

He felt himself rise shakily to his feet, but his mind was fogged in fear and his limbs were loose. The Men had stood up to leave, the one who had not spoken was gesturing excitedly, and Balar's feet dragged him out of the door after them, his mind bent on his ship and his crew, and remaining unseen.

It was clear that they knew where they were going, and keeping in the shadows they passed out of the toll gate, with Balar lurking nearby. As Balar caught up, he heard bits of their conversation - “I'm telling you, it's there – wait 'til you see it!”

It had been so long, so long since he'd had to do this, that he didn't curse the Men for being curious – he cursed the failings of the shield around the ship, the zigûren who had chased him out here. He cursed the Sea most of all. Balar had enough presence of mind through his racing thoughts to check for weapons at the Men's sides – there were none.

They were about to round the small crop of stone that led to the alcove – a few more paces and they'd be there.

Balar cleared his throat. The two Men jumped, almost into the sea itself; the rocky path was so narrow and hugged the sheer cliff, hanging over the drop into the water below.

“Good evening.” Balar's voice broke on the last word as he tried to stop his the hand that was clenched around the handle of his sabre from shaking. He took another steadying breath, unsure of what to say – the Men were edging towards him, and he thought the larger of the two was going to go for him.

“May Olou see your souls fit,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

It was quick. A slit throat and a long drop down. Over in seconds. Balar turned immediately from where the sea foam rose to meet the rocks at the bottom, wiping his blade on some moss. He hadn't even thought his night could get worse, and he laughed bitterly. There was something oddly comforting about being at absolute rock bottom. A broken ship, Sauron on his case, and Gondor razing the land he loved – and now, two innocent Men. He half contemplated throwing himself in after them. Turning back to The Iron Arms, he had just set his mind on buying the strongest grape liqueur they sold, when a rustle in the bushes up ahead stopped him.

He prayed to Asa it was an animal. He almost didn't want to look, wanted to walk straight past. As he neared the leaves, a small figure darted out of them – a flash of blonde hair and a grey dress in the moonlight. The young girl was quick, but not quick enough for Balar, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her aside and pinning her to the rock face. She was struggling, but one hand on Balar's mouth stopped her screams. He jerked his hand back as she bit down hard, but he couldn't release it from in between her teeth – she was biting harder and harder and Balar's eyes watered and he twisted.

Finally, the girl let go, but she didn't run as Balar thought she might. She stopped and looked at him. Balar, who was cradling his hand and crouching on the floor, looked up in confusion.

“I'm not going to kill you,” he said, as quietly as he could manage, straightening up. His sword was still on the ground and before the young girl could dart to get it, he kicked it away over the lip of the cliff. It dropped into the sea below them.

She looked to where it had fallen far below them, to the sea roiling and rolling on the rocks. To where he knew the bodies of the Men must lie.

“But you killed them,” she said, backing away from him and edging along the rock face. Balar started after her, but he stopped as she looked ready to bolt again. He groaned in frustration.

“Yes. Look, it's difficult. Forget me. Forget you ever saw me,” he pleaded. He knew that he could have his sword back in his hand in the space of a heartbeat if he wished it, but instead fiddled with the edge of his surcoat.

“You have a Captain's hat on,” she said. “You're the Captain of The Family Name. I saw you get off the boat, it’s like in the stories my uncle told me,” she said, her words sounding garbled against the wind. “I saw other people, too, some of them... some of them turned into seals.” The girl still looked terrified and Balar's heart sunk. She had seen far too much.

Kneeling down, he reached out a hand to her. Half of him was contemplating if it would be a quick death if she fell. Half of him was asking that other, cold, cruel half if his emotions had been drained along with his lifeblood at the bottom of the ocean all those years ago.

“My name is Balar – Captain Balar of The Family Name. I can turn into a seal as well – do, do you like seals?” He had no idea where he was going with that, but he was encouraged at the girl's nod.

“Well, I'll tell you something. You can watch us turn into seals if you promise you will never, ever tell anyone – and if you stay hidden. And I won't tell anybody what you saw. Is that a deal?”

The girl didn't nod, but her grey eyes went from his hand to his face. He knew she was going to run, and she did.

* * *

 

The young girl shut the door behind her as quietly as she could. She had made sure nobody had followed her, doubled back around corners and down alleyways. But she had seen the dwarf go back to the tavern, presumably to drink himself into a stupor.

_ Idiot _ .

“Did you find its Captain?”

The girl nodded, smoke rising from her mouth, her eyes, her nose, curling into her hair. At once, it engulfed her and her small frame shrivelled, collapsing like a snake skin on the floor. Out of it rose the form of a shadowy figure, almost solid in black smoke and standing as tall as the ceiling, looking down on the Khandisgi merchant with wide, blank eyes.

“It is the dwarf. We inform the Zigûr.”


	11. Dale

As the rain beat down on the roof of Dale's worst drinking establishment, Lumkha was fuming. She hadn't prepared as well as she'd liked for the sting, her mind still churning about her grudge with Balar. She wavered - when she thought about the things he'd done that he was famous for - captaining the great ship The Grey Watcher at an early age, becoming one of the most profiteering Corsairs on the Eastern Straits – between respect and hatred. She took another sip of her hot broth and looked over to where the Gondorian lot were sitting, as plain as daylight, though they kept their Steward's crests covered with cloaks.

 At least she had never been in Gondor's pocket when _she'd_ had a Corsair ship and an able crew. 

 Thinking about Balar again had put her in a bad mood, coupled with the itching dampness of her shirt and breeches. The rain had soaked into everything as she had, and she'd tried to surreptitiously lay it out on the table to dry, keeping a close eye out for any opportunistic thieves. She wanted to get up and walk around to dry out, but it was hammering down outside and unless she used whatever small coin she had to get a room here, strolling around the tavern would make her look odd. She distracted herself using the mirror she had brought with her to check the group from behind – no sign of the Admiral, and it was getting nearer and nearer to the time when he should have arrived. She'd heard the others talking about it yesterday (when it had been marginally sunnier and she'd had time to explore Dale), but with a sinking heart she assumed that if the weather was this bad, any travelling up from the Sea of Rhûn would be delayed or cancelled. Another night in this inn was a grim reality for her with the expenses she had been given from Haidi (not enough, in her view).

  _Make it look like an accident. Leave no one from Umbar suspected._

 There were a few ways to do that – but Lumkha fell back on the one trick she knew well, and that was untraceable poison. A little bit of a cop-out; the dwarf had entertained other ways to kill him, things she hadn't tried before, but for something this important that had to go right, it was far too risky.

 The trouble was getting close enough to slip it into something he would consume. Yesterday, she had already scoped out the kitchens and had identified the worker's entrance and exit at the rear of the building. Hanging around all day with little to do but watch had given her ample time to form ideas. After an idle few hours in the sun and feeling the need to put plans into some form of action, she had enquired about vacancies in the kitchen, bringing out a forged (but completely realistic) letter of commendation from someone she made up. She'd nicked the name from a business she had passed earlier, which looked respectable enough for her liking. She didn't have a job yet, but with a lot of flattery, and a sickeningly fabricated story about her leaving home, she had managed to convince the female proprietor to give her a chance in the kitchens – she could stop by for training.

 So now, she thought with a huff, attempting to pull her underclothes into a more comfortable position, all she had to do was wait for the moment to strike. Even Admirals had to eat.

Lumkha didn't have to wait much longer. Just when she was about to call it a night – even the most foolish Corsair wouldn't chance a trip up in this weather and darkness – her angled mirror, propped on her mug, caught the door opening and closing. A Man had walked in, damp and shrouded in a blue cloak. He didn't remove his hood – but he went up to the Gondorians, who greeted him with surprise and a salute. Lumkha dared not to move, her eyes wide and fixed. They were talking together with their heads bent; one of them was gesturing toward where the stairwell to the upper rooms was. In a swift movement, the Man lowered his hood and removed his cloak, passing it to another man to take. He made a motion towards the kitchens, and then disappeared along with the rest of the Gondorians into the stairwell – Lumkha heard their heavy boots creaking the stairs as five or six of them filed up, leaving her clutching her bowl of broth and her mind racing.

Stuffing the things that were drying into her bag, she hesitated on her next steps. She assumed that something to eat would be brought up, but she cast a wary eye over to the kitchens – it would be too suspicious and it was far too late to try and gain entry. Lumkha fitted her pack over her shoulder, its sodden weight dragging uncomfortably against her body. Checking for curious eyes trailing after her, she wandered over to the stairwell and made her way up to the first floor landing, pausing for a minute to listen. It was quiet up here – the main floor downstairs wasn't full and there didn't seem to be many people staying in the rooms; doors stood ajar as she walked past them, and the only sound she heard was the tinkering of a maid inside one. At the other end of the corridor, there was another set of stairs. She had just set one foot on the bottom one, when she heard talking from a large door behind her, opposite the stairwell. Lumkha couldn't stop a self-satisfied smile as she neared and bent down low to the keyhole, already suspecting what was on the other side of the door. It was odd, tucked away in an alcove, but as she squinted through she saw it led out into a wide reception-room, a fire crackling at one end and illuminating a small gathering of Men who were seated on mis-matched chairs in front of it.

Lumkha frowned as she tried to hear what they were talking about – she could hear them speaking, but the words were muffled by the fire, and if she was going to be bent into an uncomfortable position at all she might as well hear something useful. She spied a window not far from the door – it was partially obscured by a rather ugly-looking plant, but most importantly, it was open enough for the wind to rustle its leaves. The dwarf drew back, her dark eyes noting that it conveniently led out to a section of roof that sloped away from the main building. 

Though she definitely wasn't as nimble as she used to be, and with much cursing, the window was forced open and Lumkha, almost bent in two, managed to climb out of it. Clinging on to the slippery frame (which was far too delicate to support the weight of a fully grown dwarrow), Lumkha stepped gingerly onto the tiles and attempted to not look down at the street below. Though it was just the first floor – it was a very _ high _ first floor. Any slip would mean a broken leg and her only saving grace was that, mercifully, the wind and rain had subsided.

A window looking into the grand room was a few metres to her left and had a ledge that seemed sturdy enough to hold on to in front of it. Lumkha began to inch forwards, her hands to the wall and feet jamming down between the slates to get as much purchase as was possible. She could hear the loose tiles slip and fall away with a scrape of stone as she neared. Reaching the ledge, which was, up close, smaller than anticipated, she rested for a minute. Surrounded by stone on most sides, she could make out what the Men were saying clearer than before; however, if she just got the window open a tiny bit...

She pushed at it experimentally – it slid forwards a touch. Her heart leapt as she realised that, barred by a heavy drape, she could shift forwards on to the open windowsill without being noticed. Balancing supremely, she pulled her black cloak around herself, making sure her boot was shoved between some tiles for stability, and leaned inwards.

Even with her cloak pulled up to her face, she could see the gathering from the side of the drape that hung to one side of the window. Six Men plus the Admiral had gathered in the room – at some point, a tray of food and drink must have been brought in for them, as some were deeply engrossed in their meal. The Admiral was skinny, and rather less imposing than Lumkha had imagined for someone wreaking destruction in the South. He had changed his tunic, but his boots and trousers were still watermarked. Lumkha gritted her teeth as they made idle conversation. The ledge, after a few minutes, started to dig into her thigh where she sat, but she couldn't move for fear of making a noise. Eventually, after a round of warming mead had been poured, one of the Men nearest Arnadil spoke.  

“How did the visit go?”

Arnadil shrugged and sat down heavily. “As expected. The Nazbukhrin was easy to find, and the Captain let me board without much question,” he said. He was reading a letter intently that another Man had given him, his dark brows knitted. Lumkha stopped breathing, one hand pressing into the cold glass on the outside of the window. She could hardly believe what the Man had just said – had he really said The Nazbukhrin? She fit her head through the window, her face thawing in the warmth of the room slightly as the Men continued to talk.

“And what now, my lord? Does he concede?”

Arnadil shook his head, running a hand over his face.

“No. I explained the terms – that Gondor would seek trade with the Orocarni in return of protection from the forces of the East-”

Lumkha stifled a choke of disgust. Had they really sought out Hafar Jazrul for _ this _ ? She was glad that Varhi had left when she did, bound back for The Nazbukhrin and with a stack of observations about Gondor's raids on the shorelines of the South. But Hafar wasn't like Balar – he would never concede to any fraternisation with Gondor. The thought of Balar made a spike of anger rattle through her again; she pushed that out of her mind and strained her ears.

“Perhaps he's in league with them – the the East? I've heard that all Dwarf ships employ Easterlings on them,” said a large Man harshly. Arnadil glared irritably at him.

“True, but not in league with Sauron’s forces. However, I am being passed knowledge from a source I trust who knows Captain Jazrul well. As the Chief Admiral in those mountains, Hafar Jazrul knows better than anyone else how the Red Mountains are protected and who their rulers serve.”

 By this time, Lumkha had one leg dangling over the threshold of the windowsill, trying to quieten her breaths that were coming in fits and starts. She carefully pulled the curtain to cover her as she processed the information she'd heard, trying to retain it all. Arnadil, somehow, knew that Captain Jazrul was the Chief Admiral of The Nazbukhrin - not merely a trader. Lumkha wanted to hear more about this mysterious 'source' that he had been getting this information from; only a Dwarf, and one from the Orocarni at that, would know the rank Hafar had. It wasn't spoken about outside of Nazbukhrin, but a dwarrow of Hafar's position had influence over the entryways in and out of the Orocarni. A creeping fear rose in the dwarf as she went over the possible reasons for Arnadil really wanting to talk to Hafar. She suspected it wasn't for trade purposes.

 “I've given him a month to make his decision,” Arnadil said casually. There came a knock on the door, and Lumkha shrank back into the shadows as it opened. A Man crossed into the room, but strangely, Lumkha noticed immediately he wasn't Gondorian. He wore a cloth pulled across his face and a hood of deep red. When he spoke in greeting, Lumkha's eyes narrowed  – he was definitely Khandisgi.

 “Steward Beregond still doesn't know about the venture into the East ?” came a voice a little too close to Lumkha for comfort, making her twitch. The Man stood to the side of her on her left, leaning idly on the wall only a few feet away .

 “I've told you, Eamond, without Beregond's involvement, it will be easier to get a foot in the door with the Red Mountains. All he'd do is complicated matters,” said Arnadil. “We await this Captain's trust, and with that influence... well... the next stop is Rhûn. And who's to say the forces of Gondor cannot convince the Dwarves to work with us?” Arnadil stood, stepping quickly towards the window, and Lumkha half-tried to clamber out of it. He stopped a foot away from Eamond, but near enough that Lumkha could see a light in his eyes that shone with anger and fervour.   

 “You don't know how much wealth is in the East, Eamond. No, I say... the Eastlands have too long been under the control of nomads, wanderers... dwarves,” he hissed. The other Men were looking over at them and Lumkha felt prickling heat creep up into her face as she willed Arnadil to walk away and back to the fire. Her panicked scramble had done one thing – it had made her even more uncomfortable, and her leg was starting to shake.

 “Captain – I bring word from Umbar,” said the Man who had just entered. The attention in the room dropped, and Arnadil turned from Eamond (who looked relieved to be left). Sitting back in his chair, he waved his hand in a permission to speak.

  _Traitor,_ Lumkha thought resentfully. Khand, in the north, hadn't suffered like the coastline had, but she had no sympathy for those from the Land who turned against their fellows.

 “The zigûren are actively searching for a sea captain, a force that could challenge Sauron. They're worried.” He spoke slowly with a slight stutter to his words, and his hands fidgeted and flapped at his sides as he talked. Arnadil looked vaguely interested, reaching for his drink again and fixing the Man with an unbreaking stare that seemed to exacerbate his nervousness. Behind Lumkha, the sun was setting, bathing the streets and the room in front in vivid purple.

“A force to challenge Sauron... I didn't know anything of that magnitude existed,” Arnadil repeated. He seemed thoughtful as the Khandigsi man nodded eagerly.

“I've heard he may be a force not of this Earth, as Sauron himself is,” he offered, “perhaps that's why the zigûren are so interested.”

“A Man is simply a Man. But can a Man become a God, in the eyes of those that fear him? I don't doubt that this is merely somebody clever who has built a name for himself,” replied Arnadil dismissively. “Still, it may be wise to find him before Sauron’s followers do. An alliance against both them and Rhûn would be immeasurably useful if he holds such high-”

But just as Arnadil spoke, Lumkha felt the curtains to her left shift. She looked up and around wildly and tried to slip out of the window, but she had been sitting still for such a long time that she was stuck, her leg deadened and cramped.

It was too late. The curtain was pulled back, and she looked right into the face of Eamond. For a moment, they both stared at each other, the Man seeming as surprised as she was to catch her. Lumkha hoisted her leg out, but he was too quick and grabbed her with a snarl, pulling her backwards into the room with a strong arm across her front; Lumkha tried to pull him down and away, twisting and wrenching his grip – but then more pairs of hands were on her, forcing her down onto her front. She heard cries around her and the door bang open and shut. Then the voice of the Admiral, sickeningly close to her ear.

“Bring the guards here. We've got one for the cells tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Years later, Lumkha still didn't know what she'd done to deserve that lucky escape. Well, if you counted a lucky escape being extradited for lock-up, that is. But at least it was to Erebor.

Lumkha recalled the journey there, handcuffed and thrown into the back of a cart that was bound for the mountain. Two guards flanked her, with another one driving. Despite her fear, she'd been amused at the argument that had flown between the head of the Dalish guard and Arnadil, who had wanted to take her back to Gondor after she had been seen by the magistrate in Dale.

“Can't be done – she's a dwarf, and she'll go to Erebor to be tried there.” Despite not being able to see Arnadil from the holding cell, she knew that the pause had been something like 'wait... _ she _ ?' before the captain had left in fury, shouting that Steward Beregond would send a letter. The guards had scoffed about it afterwards, even as they had prepared Lumkha for transit.

Her head thunked against the back of the cart in resignation, and she closed her eyes. However relieved she was to be headed for Erebor rather than a Dalish cell, she was absolutely kicking herself at getting caught. She had been trusted to do this because of her experience – trusted to make this work, and she had blown quite possibly the only chance anyone would have of a quiet assassination. Not that she had answered any questions the guards had of her; sometimes, pretending to only speak Khuzdul worked perfectly.  

She felt the cart pull into the underpass that led into the goods entrance of Erebor, to the side of the main gate. The guards disembarked and she could hear them conversing with the dwarven watchers for a few minutes. Then, with a lurch the cart was off again, into the mountain. The canvas sides lit up orange and black as they passed torches, and the mules were speeding up downhill into the underbelly of the mountain. They drove on for what seemed longer than the journey from Dale to Erebor, but finally, the cart stopped and she was led out.

Lumkha's clothes hadn't fully dried properly and the chill air of the mountain left her shivering. She was in a small, enclosed space which looked odd and out of place in the mountain – nothing like prison back at home, which she'd been in and out of as a youth. A hidden door cracked open a little, and the Dalish guards brought her through the arch and into a long corridor, lined with cells. If she hadn't been so cold and less miserable, she would have been almost glad to see something dwarven-made after so long away from the Orocarni. A dwarven gaoler with a short black beard and a bald head sat behind a desk in front of the row and hailed the guards.

“This the one?”

Lumkha's arrival had evidently been expected, as the gaoler took over from the two Men and bid them a good-night.

“Follow me.”

His voice was tense and gruff, but Lumkha detected more suspicion than anger. Dwarven gaolers to other dwarves, she knew, weren't all that bad unless you'd actually killed somebody. But being where you weren't supposed to be wasn't that much of a crime, she reasoned – or at least tried to reason. If they sent her back to the Orocarni, then she knew a few places along the way to make a run for it. Lumkha's mind ticked over her options, but she forced herself to slow down – there would be time enough to think once she was locked up for the night.

Her palms were sweaty and her arms were starting to smart where they had been cuffed into position in front of her. They soon reached a door on the far end of the row – they hadn't passed any other prisoners, and the block was quiet.

“In here,” the dwarf said, in Khuzdul. Closing the door behind her afterwards, he took out a thick ring of keys from his belt, and said, “put your hands through.” Lumkha obliged, and soon she was rubbing her wrists gratefully.

“You are to have an audience with King Thror tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice never leaving a monotone. Lumkha wanted to ask why – but instead her eyes fell on the plate of bread, cheese, and cured ham that was set on the straw-filled mattress at the end of the room. She decided that she'd rather be silent now and face the king in the morning than risk asking the gaoler irritating questions, so she said 'thank you' as politely as she could muster, and sat down on her bed to eat.

 

* * *

 

Dain Ironfoot opened one eye irritably that morning, feeling a sickness in his stomach that reminded him he forwent dinner. He turned over in bed, the covers so warm and tight around him that he felt he could just sleep the day away as he longed to. He couldn't feel a body beside him, which meant his wife Yurani was up and about as was usual. Rooms at the upper sides of the mountain had sunlight filtering through to them, but this morning dawned grey and filled the visitor's bedroom with a bleak light. As he was contemplating going back to sleep, he heard the sound of bare feet echoing across the stone floor towards him:

“Dain, breakfast.”

The  young Lord of the Iron Hills managed to reassure his wife, through gritted teeth, that he would be up soon.

“Dain, please.”

“All right-” he sighed, and it felt to him as though it took every ounce of strength he possessed to move his body into an upright position. His head spun and his eyes were itching at being opened. As he turned to look his wife in the eye, he saw the same look of concern that everyone else here had whenever he said he didn't want to eat or when he said he was tired. Dain took a deep breath in and shrugged, but masked it with a roll of his shoulders.

“Morning,” he said. He tried to pretend he couldn't feel the sickness and coldness manifest itself inside his chest, spreading out to his shoulders, hanging over him like a great slavering dog.

“Please eat this morning. Thror and Hrera are worried about you, I can feel it,” she said. Dain felt the bed sag as she sat down on it, placing a warm hand on Dain's bare shoulder.

He said nothing. He felt tired.

With a great strain, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. Privately, he counted it as a small victory that he didn't immediately collapse back into the sheets in a heap, but he walked to the bathing chamber steadily, feeling Yurani's eyes mark his every step.

It was the same routine. Difficult, but he managed it. He washed his face in the cold water provided, and thought about brushing his hair; it was lank and greasy, and his braids needed to be done again, but he just... he just... 

He found a comb next to the basin and raised it to his hair, wild and red, but as he stared at his lined, haggard face in the mirror, his arm fell again.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. Next door, he could hear his wife dressing, but she was silent and made no attempt to converse with him further. He decided he preferred it that way.

* * *

 

Breakfast was excruciating. Talking moreso. Dain braved the pointed stares Thror gave him and flinched away when it got too much, forcing down bread, then pushing his plate away. He replied when spoken to, but let Yurani do most of the talking – what they were planning on doing on their visit, if they would visit the King's forges, if they would travel to Dale. Yurani said they would do all of these things, and Dain baulked at the idea. He hadn't even made it to the table without sinking down in relief, his whole body aching. He could see other dwarves looking him over as he sat while the others ate, so he busied himself with studying his plate.

Of course, there was no escape, as Yurani's hand on his told him. She walked with him after King Thror as he made his way to the throne room. Dain focussed on the Thror’s back; the architecture of Erebor was overwhelming and he longed for the familiarity, the closeness of the Iron Hills. Anger rose in his chest at everyone around him, and then sputtered out as quickly as it had come.

“Will you sit in court? I have some cases to deal with – a Dwarf felon arrived from Dale last night.”

Dain blinked and nodded dumbly but Thror didn't notice, as two dwarven guards saluted them as they passed the door into the vast green marble chamber. It wasn't as empty and oppressive as it had been last night, when Dain and Yurani had arrived from the Iron Hills for a week-long visit to Dain's cousins, but now it was filled with dwarves and the echo of work. Everything seemed to pass with a certain numbness to it. The people that walked by, the words that were said. Even Thorin, Thror's grandson, couldn't rouse more than a half-hearted smile.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” Yurani muttered to him, as they watched a block of guards march up the walkway. Shame pooled in Dain's chest as he nodded again, staring at the dwarves who were coming closer. Perhaps that would distract everyone from him.

“Your Majesty – the prisoner who arrived from Dale last night,” said a loud guard with crested hair. Dain propped his chin on his hand, looking up at Thror to his left, who was peering down at the dwarf. Another dwarf, smaller than the one who had spoken, stepped forwards with a letter in their hands.

“She is charged with breaking and entering a private room, in which six high captains of Gondor were discussing private business. She is accused also of spying.”

The dwarf in their midst didn't flinch, and regarded them all lazily with a half-lidded, annoyed gaze. To Dain's eyes she was young, her skin unlined and unblemished and her hair jet back and braided tightly back into an intricate pattern.

“Name?” the King asked. The dwarf who had read the charges hesitated and then looked over to her, but still her mouth formed a line of displeasure and arrogance. She shrugged, fixing the King with a challenging stare.

“What were you doing in Dale?” King Thror continued, looking flustered and evidently not used to being ignored. Dain smiled behind his hand as the dwarrowdam remained silent. King Thror looked to the head guard, whose face was reddening like a beetroot, and then to Dain, who shrugged in an 'it's not my kingdom' way.

“Very well. Unless you decide to tell us your name and business, we will hold you in Erebor,” Thror said finally. Without a further word from anyone, she was promptly turned around and marched straight back the way she came with her entourage.

Dain sighed and leaned back in his seat. He still had the black dog lingering over him, waiting to pounce, and the irritability and anxiousness made his chest tight. His wife watched the dwarrowdam go pensively; Dain already heard her thoughts forming. Were they back in the Hills, he knew that there would be more she would say, rather than leaving the prisoner to ruminate on their own. But unfortunately, this wasn't his kingdom, and his wife wasn't making the decisions. Dain closed his eyes for a brief couple of seconds; when he opened them, Yurani had taken his hand – that insufferable expression of concern and sympathy bent his way.

“I'm fine,” he hissed at her. At once, she withdrew her hand as though scalded, but the word _ sorry _ stuck in Dain's throat like gravel – he simply shook his head.

They didn't speak until lunch time.

 

* * *

 

Lumkha had some time to reflect on this morning's 'meeting' with King Thror back in her cell. She picked idly at a stone jutting out of the wall, a little bit of doubt edging into her heart. Should she had not been quite as arrogant as to not answer a king – a dwarven king?

A piece of stone came off in her hand, and she tried to catch the guard's eye. She hadn't eaten yet and knocked on the bars of the cell, hoping for some hospitality. The gaoler looked up.

“Want to talk?” he said in a low voice. He seemed angrier than he had last night; perhaps he'd heard of Lumkha's behaviour.

“No,” Lumkha said irritably. “When's lunch... please?” she added, trying to flash her teeth in a sheepish smile. The dwarf grumbled, and turned back to the paper he was reading.

Lumkha contemplated going to sleep. It was really the only thing she could do, unless she died of boredom. She looked longingly at the guard, and then back to the heavy lock on the door.

No, telling them what she was up to was really up to would lead them back to Umbar, back to Haidi, back to the Lai n'Abar potentially, if they probed her enough. She wondered how Hafar always managed to lie so brilliantly – that dwarf could lie his way out of a gaol cell if anyone could. A smile crossed her face as she fondly thought of the Captain; she didn't see him nearly as much as she liked, but she always remembered how often Varhi commented that Hafar could trick you so brilliantly that you'd think you'd been gifted if he robbed you in broad daylight. Whereas with Lumkha... Varhi thought it was amusing that for a dwarf who had spent her youth marauding on the Eastern Strait, she couldn't fib to save her life.

_ Hafar... _

A knot of anxiety bubbled in her chest as the haunting voice of the Admiral hung in her ears. They were coming for him. Fishing about in her pocket, she pulled out a scrap of paper. She checked in the other pocket, and swore. No pen. Her pack had been taken by the gaoler and stashed somewhere, if it hadn't been searched and discarded... she tried to think about what she had in there – a pen perhaps, her scarf, some coins... nothing that could leave a trace. The poison was still on her – a tiny capsule tucked inside a hollow earring she wore.

She was going over some words that she could possibly use for a semi-confession (making it sound as though she had just happened to overhear an interesting conversation and climb out of the window), when there was a commotion up ahead. Well, not so much a commotion, as the guards that were keeping an eye on the prisoners snapped to attention and the gaoler quickly whipped his feet off the table and in the same movement rose into a low bow.

It was the Stiffbeard who had sat beside Lord Dain when she had gone to stand before King Thror at breakfast. They were having a low conversation with the gaoler, who Lumkha saw was glancing over nervously at her and shaking his head. Eventually, he pulled out the bunch of keys, and Lumkha's heart pounded as he unlocked the door to the cell.

“The Lady Yurani wishes to speak with you,” he said in puzzlement, and he locked the door behind him. Yurani waited inside the cell door, her back to Lumkha as the gaoler inched down the corridor, keeping one eye on the cell before giving up and walking away, the other guards milling about in confusion. Lumkha had risen to her feet, readiness thrumming in her body as if to fight.

The Lady Yurani, to Lumkha's uncertainty, bowed, and then sat on the bed – she grimaced as straw pushed its way out of the mattress.

“Far from home?” she began, looking up earnestly. Though she wasn't keen on talking, a sound did make its way past Lumkha’s lips. Yurani appeared to take this for a 'yes', and a sadness glazed her eyes.

“Me, too,” she said. There was an uncomfortable silence for a long moment, during which Lumkha decided that staring into the dwarrowdam's pitying face was worse than speaking to her.

“What do you want?” she said jerkily. The other woman considered this, her finger entwining around a lock of long dark hair, so dark it almost shone blue to match the inky fabric of her dress. Lumkha was drawn to her hooded eyes, lined with dark pencil against the bronze of her skin. She swallowed and turned her eyes downward to stare at the lady's shoes, feeling a warmth trickling up her body and into her cheeks.

“Why are you here? You can tell me – I won't get you into trouble.” Despite the softness of Yurani's voice, Lumkha's tongue felt like lead against the bottom of her mouth. She raised and dropped her shoulders stiffly. The dwarrordam sighed, looking around the cell amiss.

“Are you really a spy?” she asked, edging closer and trying to look at Lumkha from where she had lowered her head.

“Perhaps,” she answered casually.

“And you're not going to tell them anything.”

Lumkha nodded, regarding Yurani strangely – she didn't sound like a noble of Erebor, but had the delicate accent of the Iron Hills. The dwarrowdam looked at a loss of what to say next, and her eyes flicked back to the bar on Lumkha's cell.

“There's no point in keeping you here then,” she said softly. 

Lumkha could have laughed: “They caught me; they've locked me up – that's how it works with spies, isn't it?” she said, sitting down next to Yurani as her legs had begun to hurt from the cramped night of sleep she'd had.

At that, the lady stood up, her jaw set in determination and a vigour in her eyes.

“Seeing as you are kin – you should be questioned back in the Orocarni. I can see if I can persuade Thror to let you go.”

_ Let me... let me go? _

“Why?” asked Lumkha incredulously. She had seen her with her own eyes, sitting next to Lord Dain Ironfoot – now she was going to persuade the King to let her walk free? Yurani shrugged, looking back over her shoulder as she tapped the cell bars for the gaoler to come and unlock the door.

“I can't go back home – but you can.” Yurani turned away from Lumkha, and the prisoner heard the set of keys rattling in the distance. Her face creased at the hollowness of Yurani's voice, but she remained silent, wondering if a 'thank you' was appropriate or if she should try to comfort her in some way. Lumkha's hand hovered by her shoulder for a moment, then dropped to her side.

“Thanks,” she said flatly. There was no answer; Yurani's hand was curled around one of the bars and her breaths were coming haltingly, as though she was trying not to cry.

“Before you leave, could you get him to bring me some paper and a pen?” Lumkha asked hesitantly. “I need to write to someone.”

Yurani looked around – her eyes were glistening, but her face was calm, one eyebrow quirked at Lumkha.

“A letter?” she whispered. Lumkha nodded.

“They won't let you send it,” Yurani hissed back as the gaoler neared, “you need to get it out of here somehow.”

The dwarrowdams' eyes met – and an agreement struck.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> zek/zeken - Ad. Market/s  
> Guthelabbad – Kh. Orocarni  
> Zigûr – Ad. Sauron  
> zigûren - Ad. The worshippers of Sauron, who hold several cities along the Azuladun Canal  
> fallakhuzdul - Kh. A dialect of Khuzdul spoken in the Orocarni- sort of the difference between Swiss German and High German.  
> iglishmêk - Kh. hand signals of the dwarves (variations within the Clans).  
> Olou - Ad. (Umbari variant) Ulmo. Also used by the dwarves of Guthelabad  
> Asa - Ad. (Umbari variant) Ossee. Also used by the dwarves of Guthelabad  
> Lai n'Abar - Ad. (Umbari variant) Cult of Freedom - Resistance fighters lead by the Nazbukhrin ship made up of ambassadors from around the South and East in an effort to work against Sauron and His followers.


End file.
